Everlasting and Neverending
by sweettea1
Summary: Cassandra always feared the dark; but, even then, she had a lamp and a gun to quell the unknown. However, after she and her team of fellow detectives respond to a mass homicide at Beacon Mental Hospital, Cassandra quickly learns there is more to fear than just the darkness. Perhaps she should be scared of her own mind.
1. Chapter 1: Pinpoint

**Author's Note: ** In the simplest terms, this story spawned in my head and urged by brain to write it down. No _if's _or _but's_, either. Therefore, you are now reading the result of my nagging, spontaneous plot bunnies.

On that note, welcome to _Everlasting and Neverending_, my muse for _The Evil Within_. Truly, I never thought I would develop such an interest and love for the video game, considering my pitiful, lacking skills in horror games; however, the plot of the game and the characters involved intrigue me to no end. And, despite how terrifying, there is so much to be explored in the realm of Ruvik's mind, it seems; and I want to delve deeper.

Therefore, I hope you all enjoy what I have written so far and what is to come; and, I sincerely thank you for taking the time to read my work. Have fun...

**_Disclaimer: I, sweettea1, do not own any elements or characters from The Evil Within. I do, however, own any OCs or scenes not seen in the game, for they are my creations._**

* * *

**Chapter I:**

**Pinpoint**

"_Find out what you're afraid of and go live there." –Chuck Palahniuk_

* * *

"Well, Kidman."

A sigh escaped Julie Kidman's lips. "What is it this time, Manders?" she asked, swiveling away from her computer to face the owner of the voice—Cassandra Manders.

Aforementioned woman smiled broadly, slipping her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. "You, me, Joseph, and Sebastian—what do you say?"

Julie dawned a contemplative look (or, rather, a feigned appearance of the emotion), tilting her head mildly to the side and resting her left cheek against her knuckles. "Sounds like a crowded ride. Where are we going?"

"Crime scene downtown," Cassandra answered, a frown tugging the corners of her lips downward. Shifting, she leaned her hips against Julie's desk, her eyes flitting through the neatly stacked papers and personal trinkets covering the wooden surface. "Sebastian suggested that we could use the experience—you know, us rookies."

Julie huffed a laugh, adjusting her position and folding her arms across her chest. "He suggested?" she asked, a rare, teasing tone touching her voice.

Cassandra hummed, nodding distantly as she glanced toward the office of the detective in question—Sebastian Castellanos. The room was only three desks away from Julie's space, occupying a generous portion of the department. It was well lit, bathing every inch in a yellow tint that added a strange, worn appearance to the office. Through the glass panes on either side of the closed door, Cassandra could see the resident of the workspace, palms resting on the oaken desk and hazel eyes focusing on the pictures scattered between his hands. He wore his never-changing attire—which, surprisingly, remained classy and sharp despite the number of times he had donned the garb—and his black hair was slicked back, a few stray pieces dangling around his face. He had not moved from that stance for the past thirty minutes, except for exchanging glossy photographs for others or allowing his hand to stray toward his chin in deep thought. Cassandra had to wonder exactly _what_ he was poring over, and whether the evidence strewn across his desk was about this crime scene they were supposed to investigate.

Her musings were abruptly interrupted when Julie snapped her fingers, earning a startled jump and a bashful blush from Cassandra. Julie stared at her, her arched eyebrows the only sign that she was amused—or, possibly, irritated. Cassandra struggled to distinguish between the two expressions whenever she conversed with Julie. "You were saying?" Kidman urged.

Cassandra cleared her throat, pushing away from Julie's desk. Her initial embarrassment still burned her cheeks and ears. "Well, he may have _insisted_ rather strongly that we tag along—but I will point out that he did not sound too thrilled."

"Castellanos is never thrilled about anything," Julie said dryly. She stood, gripping the back of her chair and wheeling the seat under the desk. "Still, I suppose it would do us both some good to get out on the field. I'm tired of searching through the city's old case files."

"Is _that_ what you do in your spare time?" Cassandra pried, smirking playfully. Julie gave her a deadpan look.

"Yes, and I would suggest you do the same," she said, claiming her badge and hooking it onto her belt. Then, with one hand grabbing a notepad out of a drawer and the other selecting a pen out of the pencil holder, she fully faced Cassandra and shoved the objects into her hands. "You may learn a few things from those cases."

Cassandra accepted the notepad and pen, slipping the latter into her front pocket. "Maybe. But several of them are unsolved—mysteries for some determined detective to uncover and revive," she replied with a shrug. She flipped through the notepad, ensuring that she had plenty of blank pages to use.

"Have you ever considered that _you_ could be that determined detective?" Julie countered, garnering Cassandra's full attention. The latter rookie furrowed her brow.

"I—I guess not." She paused, hesitant. "Have you, Kidman?"

Julie's lips twisted into a frown. "I can always dream about being the best."

Cassandra nodded. "Then work for it. It's not impossible, especially if you have the potential."

Julie quirked an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment, Manders?"

Aforementioned woman chuckled. "If it is," she said, staring at Julie pointedly, "then don't expect too many of them."

Julie returned the stare equally. "Same."

* * *

Cassandra would not consider her cramped position between Julie Kidman and Joseph Oda in the back seat of the police cruiser a pleasant experience—especially when every turn or bump in the road sparked a collision among the three of them. Julie did not complain, simply staring out of the window in displeasure and mumbling an apology whenever her elbow accidentally rammed into Cassandra's bicep. Joseph, however, fidgeted often, pressing against the car door and peering at the contents of the manila folder clasped in Cassandra's fingers. He seemed to be trying to distract himself, proffering questions and pointing to the printed information on the papers as Cassandra analyzed the available database. She knew she would have much more fortune back at the department since she would have better technology and a greater amount of space; however, they still had twenty minutes of travel to overcome—and that was a rough estimate, for the cloudy sky had finally decided to release its torrents of rain, slowing their progress. Cassandra added another ten minutes to their trip.

"Cassandra."

The rookie lifted her chin, meeting the hard, hazel gaze that irrefutably belonged to Sebastian.

Realizing that he had her attention, the veteran detective extended a hand toward her. "Let me see those photos again," he requested.

Cassandra nodded mutely, turning to the back of the folder and retrieving the stack of photographs. She spared a glance at the first picture, grimacing at the gruesome image of the dead body and the memories it sparked from her time at the crime scene. Hastily, she handed Sebastian the visual evidence, mumbling a quiet 'here you go.'

"Thanks," he said, distant as he instantly attached his attention to the same image Cassandra had been cringing at. A minute passed, and Cassandra watched from the corner of her eye as Sebastian studied every picture in the considerably thick stack. Afterwards, he turned his torso to face her again. "What do you make of this?"

He presented a close-up shot of the victim's arm, revealing a thick, blocky-style symbol drawn on the skin by a black marker. It strangely resembled a diamond pierced by a spear. Cassandra squinted and Joseph leaned forward to examine the emblem with her. Julie merely glanced, but not a single word left her lips.

Cassandra finally shrugged. "A target, perhaps? I remember a couple other victims bearing that same mark."

"A rivalry, then?" Joseph suggested, adjusting his glasses.

"That, or a sign that this is a serial killer—you know, his personal touch to distinguish his work."

Sebastian withdrew the photograph, gazing at it with a new sense of interest. He opened his mouth to proceed with his inquiries, but he never received the chance—the police cruiser's radio crackled to life before he could utter a sound.

"_All units, all units; 11-99, expedite cover code 3. Beacon Mental Hospital._"

Every pair of eyes fell on the radio; however, only Officer Connelly—the oddly silent driver who kept his eyes plastered on the wet road—provided a response to the emergency call.

"One-eighty-four, copy; code 3. ETA three minutes," he said, flipping on his sirens and spinning the wheel to turn right at the intersection.

"_Copy one-eighty-four._"

"Sorry detectives. I know you just comin' off a case, but I'm afraid we're gonna have to make a detour," Connelly apologized, glancing at Cassandra, Julie, and Joseph through the rear view mirror. Cassandra was amused to notice Connelly's purposeful avoidance of Sebastian's gaze. A wise decision, she supposed, considering the sullen mood the veteran detective had adopted as soon as the radio had interrupted his interrogation.

Cassandra shifted forward, the seatbelt protesting against the action and biting into her waist. She reached a hand between the two front seats. "You want me to take those back, Sebastian?" she asked, pointing at the photographs still clasped in his hands.

Sebastian stared at her for a brief second before returning the pictures. "I suppose so," he said. Cassandra quickly straightened, fully aware of the irritation in Sebastian's tone. He did not want to be bothered.

Joseph—as if detecting the tension—decided to spark a conversation; or, perhaps he was simply curious. "Sounds serious." He nodded toward the radio. "Is it a riot?"

Connelly shook his head. "Call went out just before I picked you up. Said it was 'multiple homicides.' Half a dozen units already on-scene."

Cassandra furrowed her brow. "Then what do they need us for? It seems as though the situation isn't quite under control yet," she noted, tucking away the photographs and gingerly setting the manila folder between her feet. "Half a dozen units is a considerable number."

The radio intervened again. "_One-thirty-one, please advise—_"

Connelly looked at her through the rear view mirror. "This isn't your typical one-man murder case, detective. Apparently, it's some bloody massacre that occurred at the hospital, and they haven't found the culprit responsible for the crime."

"You mean _culprits_. If it's as bad as you describe, then there must be more than one suspect," Julie interjected, finally tearing her eyes away from the water-speckled window and meeting the driver's gaze blandly.

"Maybe," Connelly admitted. "Or maybe it's the ghost of that doctor who went schizo and chopped up all those patients."

Joseph leaned forward. "That's not what happened. Some patients disappeared. Some kind of scandal?"

Cassandra stared incredulously at Joseph. "Are you serious?" she asked, eyebrows soaring upwards.

"Supposedly." Joseph shrugged, unsure.

"Still," Connelly mused, seemingly brushing away Joseph's comment, "gives ya the creeps, doesn't it?"

"_One-two-seven, one-two-four, please respond—_"

Suddenly, Sebastian turned around in his seat, speaking for the first time since the radio had come to life. "Joseph, you think there's a connection?"

"It's a possibility," the aforementioned detective speculated. He lifted a small, black book and waved it in the air. "I believe the records were sealed."

"_Anyone on-scene, respond—_"

Cassandra glared at the radio, the continuous interrupting beginning to probe her patience. Sebastian seemed to be just as tired with the requests and alerts as she was, for he decided to answer the woman on the other end.

"Dispatch this is Detective Castellanos in one-eight-four, what's the situation, over?"

"_One-eight-four be advised, some problem—at Beacon Memorial—radio._"

Cassandra had to strain her ears to understand the patchy words that filtered through the speakers; and, even when she recognized the few audible phrases, they provided her with no definite knowledge. There was a problem at the Beacon Memorial? Had they found the suspect—or _suspects_, as Julie had insisted—and were struggling to bring him—_them_—into custody? Or were they experiencing problems with their radio, since that was the final word that she managed to decipher?

Sebastian spoke again: "Is there any—"

A screech funneled through the speakers, earning multiple curse words from both Sebastian and Connelly, and grimaces from Joseph and Cassandra. The latter detective covered her ears, squeezing her eyes shut as the piercing noise seeped through her fingers and pounded against her eardrums.

"Can you shut that thing off?" Cassandra shouted over the din, cracking one eye open to stare at the screaming radio.

Connelly's only response was 'Jesus!' as he yanked the police cruiser back between the lines, jerking his passengers as well. And, strangely—_thankfully_—the radio silenced itself as soon as Connelly returned to his respective lane.

"Wish's granted," the officer breathed, rubbing his right ear tenderly.

Cassandra carefully uncovered her ears, releasing a sigh of relief. She glanced at Joseph, watching as he shook his head and took off his glasses. "Are you all right?" she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah," he said, mimicking Connelly's actions. "You?"

"Better than I thought." She turned to Julie. "Kidman?"

"Perfectly," she responded evenly, unfazed by the display. Cassandra was tempted to question her fellow rookie whether she heard the screech or not, but she held her tongue. For Julie's sake, Cassandra was not going to draw too much attention to her. Not now.

Therefore, she switched her gaze between Sebastian and Connelly, mouth opening to ask them the same question; however, Sebastian raised a hand, nodding his head to signify that they were equally well—at least, as well as one could be after such an event.

Sebastian peered through the rear view mirror. "Junior Detective Kidman, any thoughts?" he asked the composed woman. Cassandra darted her eyes toward Julie instinctively.

"Nothing yet," she replied evenly, voice inflectionless. She watched the outside world blur past them. "I'm sure we'll know everything once we get there."

"Right," Sebastian mumbled. He addressed Cassandra. "What about you, Manders?"

Cassandra blinked, pursing her lips. "To be honest, my head is spinning—and it's not the radio's fault, either. I just don't know which assumption to start with."

"That's what detectives are for, Cassandra: we put the pieces together and choose the right answer."

Sebastian did not press for an answer, letting the subject slide and allowing the rest of the ride to continue in silence.

Cassandra reclined in her seat, staring thoughtfully at the folder resting on the floor at her feet. A few pages and photographs were peeking out of the manila cardstock and poking into her booted foot, as if prodding her to search through the details again for a promising secret. She nearly accepted the temptation, but another sharp turn by Connelly helped her to refrain. Therefore, she focused on the soaked road before them, illuminated by the headlights of the police cruiser. They supposedly had multiple homicides—she needed to be prepared for anything, no matter how grisly or baffling.

Roughly two minutes passed before the police cruiser came to a progressive halt in front of an impressive iron gate. Beyond the black rods and crystalline droplets of rain, Cassandra could see six or seven police cars parked randomly within the courtyard; however, no officers could be seen near the black and white vehicles. Undoubtedly they were within the looming antique building, investigating the crime and searching for their killer. A shiver wove down her spine as she studied the hauntingly intricate design of the old mansion, and she rubbed her upper arms to soothe the goose bumps that prickled her skin. For what reason would a man want to conduct a mass murder within the Beacon Mental Hospital? What goal would be accomplished from such violence? Was it an act of revenge? Anger? Desperation?

"Come on, Manders. You can't solve the case in the car," Julie remarked, leaning down to stare at her fellow rookie.

"Of course," Cassandra said, returning to the present. She slid across the seats and exited the police cruiser, standing next to Julie in the light drizzle.

Sebastian and Joseph were already sauntering toward the iron gates, sweeping their gazes across the disorderly scene. Julie and Cassandra joined them some moments later, each of the detectives eyeing a particular point of interest.

Joseph's voice sliced through the rhythmic beat of the rain, asking Sebastian, "What do you make of it?"

The veteran detective did not answer Joseph, opting to glance over his shoulder and give Connelly an order. "Connelly, contact Dispatch and let them know what's happening." He switched his attention to the others. "Joseph, Kidman, Cassandra—you're with me. We're going to have a look around."

Julie released a barely audible sigh. "Right…" She trudged forward, slipping through the narrow opening between the two doors of the gate.

"I'm with you," Cassandra acknowledged, staring after Julie suspiciously. She followed closely behind Sebastian and Joseph, shoulders tense and senses alert as she scanned the area. As she had noted earlier, the courtyard was abandoned, hinting at no signs of life other than swaying vegetation. The police cruisers were dead, soaked in rainwater; and the towering hospital held no light in its windows.

They rounded around the center of the courtyard, and Cassandra seized the opportunity to admire the stony monument standing proudly among a nest of bushes. It resembled a lighthouse, with a circle centering on the peak of the structure and framing the two shafts of light that emitted from the top. Cassandra raised her eyebrows, silently admiring the weathered piece of architecture; however, her appreciation dwindled quickly and her attention returned to the antique building when she caught Sebastian and Joseph gliding up the steps.

Sebastian reached the heavy mahogany doors first, inspecting them briefly before placing both of his palms on the wet wood and pushing the left side inward. The hinges groaned, and Sebastian simultaneously grunted—not in effort, but in revulsion. Cassandra and Joseph exchanged a confused glance; however, they soon realized the reason behind Sebastian's reaction, the strong, coppery scent of blood striking their noses. Cassandra scrunched her features, pressing the back of her hand against her nostrils in an attempt to block the overwhelming scent mingling with the humid air.

Joseph exhaled sharply, joining Sebastian at the door. "Smells like blood," he noted, sharing a wary glance with the veteran detective.

Sebastian nodded, already aware. "All right, stay sharp."

Joseph drew his handgun in response, pushing open the opposite door and proceeding into the hospital. Cassandra strode forward, fingers curled around the handle of her own gun, ready to assist Joseph in reconnaissance. However, Sebastian had other plans, gripping her shoulder and pulling her behind the threshold.

Cassandra only caught a glimpse of the bloodbath beyond before she turned sharply toward Sebastian. "You need our help," she stated, not daring to offer a question. Sebastian was usually careful to consider his options if given the opportunity.

"Yes, but you would do me more good if you stayed with Julie—_outside_," he said, retracting his hand. His hazel eyes flitted over to Julie, who was approaching their position with gun in hand. "We're going to check it out. You two don't let anyone else through this door."

Julie—much to Cassandra's shock—protested. "We can be an extra set of eyes."

And, of course, Sebastian was unmoving in his decision. "We don't know what's happening here. You're our backup," he insisted, eyeing them both. He was not in the mood for arguments.

Cassandra sighed, rocking back on her heels. "Fine," she muttered, lowering her gun. Sebastian nodded, trailing after Joseph. Cassandra saw one final preview of the pools of blood (along with a whiff of the crimson substance) before the doors creaked closed. She spun around, glaring at the empty police cruisers and the puddles of water soaking the earth and gravel. She felt Julie's eyes boring holes into the side of her head, but she did not bother to address her fellow rookie, merely listening for any signs of a struggle behind the mahogany doors.

Lightening sliced through the clouds, eerily illuminating the courtyard and adding a faint glow to the lighthouse monument. Cassandra stared at the piece of architecture for several long seconds, debating. Then, whipping her head in Julie's direction, she commented, "Officer Connelly sure is taking his sweet time."

Julie arched an eyebrow. "He's calling backup, Manders; give him some time."

Cassandra stared at her. "There was a mass murder in that hospital—don't you find that strange? Or even concerning?" she stressed, wiping away a raindrop that had plopped solidly onto her forehead. "We have empty police cruisers—an empty _courtyard_, actually; multiple bodies; two of our best detectives going in alone; and nothing but _silence_ from this place. We don't even have a suspect."

Julie's jaw visibly tensed, and she deliberately avoided Cassandra's gaze as she responded sharply, "If there are no officers, then they are tracking down their missing suspect. If Sebastian and Joseph are our best detectives, then they can handle whatever situation that may impede them." She finally decided to turn toward Cassandra, a deep frown creasing her features. "If you're so concerned, then go find Connelly. I'll stand by and watch the door myself."

A rumble of thunder seemed to enhance Julie's words, sending a second shiver through Cassandra's bones. She gave a single, stiff nod. "I won't be gone long. We're in this together, though—so if _anything_ changes, then alert me."

Julie returned the gesture, nodding; however, she never spoke another word, letting her gaze drift elsewhere. Cassandra holstered her gun, trotting down the slick steps and trudging through the rain. The downpour had increased, the droplets becoming larger and falling more rapidly. Cassandra wished she had collected her own coat, similar to Sebastian; the veteran detective was always prepared—not even the weather surprised him.

Connelly's cruiser's lights still flashed, and Cassandra could distinctly hear static emitting from the radio. Furrowing her brow, she slipped through the gates, cringing when the cold, iron bars brushed her palms.

"Officer Connelly?" she called, raising her voice above the thrum of the rainfall. No reply came from the vehicle. "Connelly? This is Detective Manders; are you all right?"

Her steps slowed, and she analyzed the police cruiser with more scrutiny. The driver's side door was still swung wide open, and Cassandra could see a pair of feet sticking out beneath the door—but they were not standing upright, rather leaning backwards in a lax position. Cassandra instantly ripped her handgun out of her holster, holding the weapon up defensively and blinking the water out of her vision.

She circled around, keeping her gun trained on the police cruiser. She eventually passed the open car door; however, her heart skipped a beat when she saw the limp form of Officer Connelly spread awkwardly across the seats, blood streaming from his right eye and pooling on the floorboards.

"O—oh my God," she stuttered. She summoned what little courage she retained—undoubtedly, that courage was merely adrenaline—and surged forward, reaching across Connelly's body and placing two fingers against his neck. No steady pulse pressed against her own skin.

She withdrew from the body, mouth agape as she tried to form words. "_Kidman!_ Kidman, officer—"

The words died in her throat as she spun around and met the milky-white gaze of a cloaked man. Three slow seconds passed as Cassandra stared at the man before her, studying his horrifically scarred face and hard gaze; and, in that seemingly long lapse of time, Cassandra felt as though the man had sorted through her entire life—raked his eyes over every thought her brain had ever produced.

Then, she reacted.

She lifted her gun and fired, the bullets burning through the barrel and colliding with the cloaked man; however, not a single shot harmed him. Cassandra's eyes bulged as she watched every bullet sink into his form and disappear, leaving no trace that he had ever been harmed—save for the old burns racing across his face and partly exposed torso.

Her trigger-finger stilled and her arms wobbled. The cloaked man never flinched, only observing her with a twinkle of curiosity shining in his white irises. Then, with the flick of a hand, her gun was ripped away from her hands and sent scattering across the street.

Cassandra gasped, her fingers stinging from the force and her brain numb from the speed of the action. She was disarmed, and this man never had to lay a finger on her. Slowly—_fearfully_—she faced her attacker.

"What are you?" she breathed.

He smirked. Then, drawing his right arm back, he swung his fist down at her face. Cassandra caught a brief, wicked glint from his hand before pain exploded through her left eye.

The world become dark; the rain stopped falling; and her heart stopped pounding.


	2. Chapter 2: Mad, Madder, Maddest

**Author's Note: **Hello, dear readers, and welcome back to _Everlasting and Neverending_. So since I have posted the first Chapter, I have been profoundly surprised by the response I received from all of you! Seriously, it is quite amazing, and I want to thank everyone for the encouragement. You make an author proud :).

Also, this Chapter is much longer than the last. I originally planned to cut Chapter II into two _separate_ pieces, considering the length; however, I felt as though the flow was interrupted too abruptly that way, and I decided to leave it be. Besides, who doesn't like longer Chapters? My point exactly.

Hope you enjoy!

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within in any form of shape. **_**_My OCs and any scenes not seen in the game are my sole creations and property._**

* * *

**Chapter II:**

**Mad, Madder, Maddest**

"_There is no passion so contagious as that of fear." –Michel de Montaigne_

* * *

Her heart began to beat, and her lungs pushed her chest up and down—those two factors were the only motivations Cassandra had for her to finally open her eyes. Her eyelids fluttered open, sticky and crusted around the edges; however, she barely paid a moment's notice to the uncomfortable sensation once she registered the ghostly face inches away from her own head. She gasped, inhaling a strong scent of rotting flesh mixed with traces of old blood—she smelled _death_, thick and suffocating as it blanketed the air.

The pale, terrified face lying next to her was unfamiliar—even ignoring the specks of blood and blotches of bruises littering his skin—but he wore the recognizable uniform of a Krimson City police officer. Was he one of the men who responded to the call at Beacon Mental Hospital? Or was she simply delusional, imagining the outfit in the impenetrable darkness?

Cassandra did not allow herself time to debate the identity of the man or if he truly was an officer from Krimson City, instead opting to roll onto her back to avoid the glazed gaze the man held. She swallowed, attempting to satisfy the utterly dry state of her throat; however, all she tasted was blood, the revolting substance seemingly coating her teeth and tongue.

Exhaling heavily, she began to rummage through her fragmented memories in hopes of recovering some—_any_—information upon how she got there. Her brain was sluggish to respond, but she finally recalled a horrific image of a cloaked, burned man piercing her left eye. She remembered his indifferent white irises and the smirk that graced his chapped lips before he sent her into oblivion. Who was he? What had he done to her? Was he responsible for Connelly's death? Was _she_ dead? Were the others dead?

She cupped her right hand over her mouth, sucking in a shaky breath. She did not know if any of those theories were true—not with certainty, at least. She was breathing, thinking, pumping blood—how could she not be alive? And Sebastian, Joseph, and Julie? They had each other's backs; they would protect each other from this cloaked menace. They were strong, and they were smart. She knew this without a doubt. Therefore, she needed to focus on herself at the moment; and surrendering and lying motionless next to the officer's corpse would bring her no benefit. She must uncover her location and asses her situation to the best of her ability. She needed to be diligent. She was detective, was she not?

Placing her hands on either side of her, Cassandra pushed her torso upward into a sitting position. The metal—she was confident the cool, smooth plane beneath her was metal—was slick and wet, and she cringed at the thought of what the liquid under her fingertips was (although, the distinct, coppery odor entering her lungs provided easy identification). Her knees were weak as she stood, wavering as she applied her weight to the joints; and her spine popped with every inch she straightened her body, eliciting a grunt of pain from her lips once she reached her full height. How long had she been lying there, unconscious? Her brain calculated minutes; her body translated hours.

She shook her head. Another consideration for another time.

Blinking her eyes, Cassandra peered into the opaque darkness that engulfed her. She could vaguely distinguish multiple, motionless forms sprawled across the floor near her position, spread apart equally as if they had been purposely laid down and left to rot together in this forsaken room—as if they were a _collection_ to be admired.

A shudder wracked her body. Cassandra hoped her theory was wrong.

Gingerly, Cassandra stepped over the dead officer, blindly navigating the rayless room as she searched for a hint—a hint other than the massacre at her feet. Her boots stubbornly stuck to the metal, and her calves periodically brushed the lifeless bodies whenever she traversed over them—and every time, she waited for one of the beings to utter a sound or grasp at her legs and drag her back down to the cold floor. However, she managed to reach the perimeter of the room without dilemma, her palms finally meeting a barrier—_a_ _wall_. Brow creasing, she felt along the wall, noting the frictionless surface and the periodical grooves her fingernails slipped into—strangely, the wall felt similar to the floor. Was the entire chamber made of metal? A solid cage? But where in Krimson City could a metallic room this size, accommodating dozens of corpses, be found? Could she possibly be trapped somewhere inside Beacon Mental Hospital?

The ludicrous assumption (was she accusing the hospital of _murder_?) lingered in her mind for only a few seconds, slowly fading away as she focused on her next course rather than her baffling location. She extended her right hand, lightly trailing her fingertips across the metal and ensuring a clear passage for her upper body; her feet, however, faltered often, slipping in unknown fluids and catching the fabric that clung to the humanoid forms beneath her. Deep in her subconscious, she knew she must travel more carefully and pay heed to the people she was stupidly tripping over; but the forefront of her mind warned her of the dangers that could be lurking in the shadows and swerving through the dead. The haunting thought kindled a desperate urge to escape and find solace elsewhere—to leave the suffocating smells and utter blackness that composed her makeshift prison.

She was blind to her surroundings, and she was _afraid_.

Suddenly, her right foot met a thick, bulging hurdle, and she fell. She hissed as her elbow collided sharply with a solid block; and, in response, she pulled her injured arm close to her chest and cupped her throbbing joint.

Then, she paused, breath catching in her throat. "What?" she muttered aloud, turning her eyes upward. Hazily, she could detect uneven ridges progressively rising from the ground, leading toward the wall before disappearing. Numbly, she hooked her left hand around one of the closest ridges, following its edge and patting its flat top.

_Stairs._

Cassandra's hope sparked, and she scrambled to the beginning of the staircase, accidentally stumbling over a couple more bodies. Her boots thumped noisily against the steps, and her knees and palms were prodded painfully whenever they landed upon a corner. For how long she climbed, Cassandra did not bother to keep track; she only focused on the path before her, searching for some end to her ascending journey—an end that came quickly. The top step slipped beneath a (unsurprisingly) metallic door that had been lazily left ajar.

Cautiously, Cassandra crept forward, peering through the narrow opening and eagerly scouting the area. Beyond the door, a wide, dim corridor stretched several yards forward into the unknown. Broken lights hung hazardously from the ceiling while its exposed wires sparked at random intervals—and, in those brief moments of limited illumination, Cassandra could distinguish a few characteristics of the desolate hallway. The walls were bare concrete, inflicted with thin, web-like cracks; handprints; and dried splatter near the base boards. The floors were worse, the once shattered tiles streaked and stained with unimaginable gore leading toward the room she was occupying. A single, tall cabinet sat midway down the corridor, its doors swinging loosely on their hinges and its shelves presumably empty—as if someone had recklessly stolen its contents.

Cassandra leaned away from the door, puffing her cheeks and exhaling slowly. Where _was_ she?

A minute passed—a long, torturous minute—before Cassandra finally stood, pried the door open, and exited her prison. The air was cold in the corridor, prickling Cassandra's skin and freezing her lungs whenever she sucked in a breath. She was highly alert, skimming the desolate hallway and closely examining any irregular shadows. Nothing moved; nothing shifted. All was disturbingly peaceful.

Cassandra's fingers left the door handle, instinctively hovering over her holster—wait. Cassandra's eyes darted downward. Her handgun was not snugly hugging her hip—her holster was empty.

She cursed fiercely, rubbing her forehead in silent frustration. Though the memory was vague, she could recall the cloaked man miraculously tearing her weapon out of her grasp with a wave of his hand—seconds before he had sent her into unconsciousness and deposited her here. If she had merely refrained from dispatching her precious bullets—had she kept her gun lowered—then perhaps she would still have her firearm. But those were small chances; for, what kidnapper would voluntarily provide his victim with a possibility of escape? Therefore, whichever method she chose would have formed the same dilemma. She would still be lost in this gruesome facility, and she would still risk the same vulnerability. It was the inevitable.

Sighing, Cassandra finally urged her feet to shuffle onward down the broad corridor. She purposely deviated away from the center of the hall where the blood was thickest, following the left wall closely and allowing her sticky fingertips to glide along the harsh concrete. Her steps echoed softly, the heel of her boots crunching the broken tiles that interrupted her pathway. She paused twice along her trek, her head swiveling from left to right as she observed the area and searched keenly for any notification that she was being followed or observed. A shiver shot down her spine at the notion, and she found herself quickening her pace down the corridor, heart beating uncontrollably and adrenaline burning in her veins. Truly, if her knees had not felt as though they would buckle underneath her weight, she would have jogged the rest of the way and left the metallic room and its desolate corridor in her wake.

Fortunately, she reached the end of the main hallway rather quickly after the thought had flitted across her mind. Two narrower paths turned sharply to the left and right, respectively—the left leading to a revolving door and the right ending abruptly at a set of dull, yellow doors. Cassandra's hope grew when she saw, through the frosted glass of the double doors, a faint, orange-tinted light; however, her eagerness plummeted when she noticed the thick pool of blood settled at the base of the entrance, the red substance glowing hauntingly in the weak illumination.

Cassandra's breathing became shallow as she examined the crimson lake and followed the river that broke away from it, flowing down the corridor as far as she could see. Those dead bodies—they originated from that room. Those people were _slaughtered_ in there and disposed into the metallic room. But why had she not suffered the same fate? Had she been disregarded? Had she been supposed dead rather than unconscious? Granted, she was no less thankful, but she still held her suspicions. She did not want her efforts of escape to conclude in a cruel ploy. She had progressed this far; she was determined to outwit her kidnapper.

The left hallway became her next route, and she forced herself to slow her pace and muffle her resounding footsteps. The patience required was agonizing; however, she felt victorious when reached the revolving doors without the slightest disturbance or surprise.

Releasing a steady breath, Cassandra pressed her palms against the dirty glass and pushed forward. Her world brightened considerably when she completed the rotation and entered the next room, for the proceeding chamber was blessed with proper, functioning electricity. Cassandra closed her eyes momentarily, silently rejoicing in the fluorescent glow descending from the ceiling; however, her elation rapidly diminished when she finally opened her eyes and glanced down at her body. Her attire was ragged and filthy, blotched with patches of gore and scuffed around her knees and elbows—actually, the fabric had completely torn on her right elbow, revealing her own lifeblood oozing from a thin cut across the rough skin.

Cassandra's stomach churned at the sight, and she snapped her head up to avoid her own ghastly state. Unfortunately, the action did not erase the memory from her brain, nor did it eliminate the disgusting sensation that crawled under her skin and seeped into her bones. She was carrying death on her very person—she felt, inside and out, uncleanly.

Her knees wobbled again, and she extended a hand to support her frame against the wall. Her eyes darted around the room, absorbing the details and inspecting for any possible hints upon where she was. However, as she scanned the generous space, she was shocked to realize that she was standing within lobby—or, rather, a waiting area. Plush chairs lined the opposite side of the room, interrupted occasionally by empty side tables. Four huge, boarded windows covered the wall behind the aforementioned chairs, restricting access to the outside world; and, separating the windows into two pairs, was a fanciful painting of angels strumming golden harps. A hauntingly grandeur display, but hardly helpful or comforting.

Casting her gaze to the left, Cassandra analyzed the rectangular countertop entrapping a small workspace. Her curiosity ignited, and she stumbled over to the cubicle, her palms collecting dust as she ran her hands across the countertop's surface. She leaned forward and studied the desks stationed within the tight space, eyes analyzing the few items decorating their wooden tops. Nothing garnered her attention—well, not until she found the telephone shoved in the corner.

"Thank you, God," she murmured, following the bordering countertops until she reached the entrance to the workspace. She approached the telephone and pulled it out of its corner, fingers poised over the keys and receiver pressed firmly against her ear. She was prepared to dial the first number that surfaced in her mind (even in her predicament, it was strange for her to punch in the familiar nine-one-one call); however, she had barely lifted her index finger from the _one_ key when the receiver filled with static, gradually building to a piercing shriek.

Cassandra managed to listen to the screech for a total of two seconds before she flung the receiver away. She flinched when the receiver collided with the edge of the desk before it tumbled toward the floor. Of course, it never met the tile, for its cord kept it aloft, bouncing up and down as it continued to emit its awful noise. Cassandra pressed the heels of her palms against her ears, desperately trying to shield her eardrums from the core-wracking sound; however, similar to her experience in Connelly's police cruiser, the shriek tore through her defenses and sunk into her brain like a hungry, ravenous animal.

She should have grabbed the receiver and ended the call—ended the _madness_. But her body failed to respond to her desires, folding in upon itself in an attempt to form a barrier between her and the screech. Her head throbbed, her vision blurred, her skin tingled, her throat tightened, her muscles twitched, her heart pounded, her bones rattled—

Then it stopped.

Cassandra panted, limbs shaking violently as she slowly unraveled herself. The pain that had controlled frame? It disappeared, seeping away with every exhale she released. She blinked rapidly, staring at the empty space where the receiver once dangled; then, her gaze drifted to the pair of legs adjacent to the former position of the receiver. Her eyes continued upward, forehead creasing in worry as she noted the stained (_bloodstained_) laboratory coat and the syringe clasped in a gloved hand. She tilted her head back further, her breath quickening as she stared at the face looming down at her—a surgical mask and an odd pair of goggles covering the majority of the newcomer's features.

Cassandra swallowed thickly, scooting backwards as she struggled to stand. Her lips formed silent words, but her voice failed to send the message.

Therefore, as if detecting her current inability, the man—was he a doctor?—sighed distastefully. "Speechless? Well, so am I. I thought you were _dead_."

One word—one parting word, and Cassandra turned around onto her hands and knees, crawling away as her feet continued to search for purchase on the broken tile. Her right foot eventually found stabilization, the toe of her boot catching a tile that had been chipped away. However, before her left foot could follow suit, she felt a sharp prick against the side of her neck. She gasped, whipping back around sharply and smacking the offending appendage and needle away from her skin—away from _her_.

The doctor stumbled, grunting, before muttering, "Please, let me help you."

"I don't _need_ your help," she gritted out, ramming her heel into the doctor's knee. In a malicious, victorious sense, she was pleased to hear the pain cry he gave as he slid down the wall, one hand cradling his injured joint while his other hand attempted to snatch her again. She never gave him the opportunity, pushing herself to a standing position and stumbling out of the cubicle and around the countertops. Her agonizing headache had dispersed; however, it was merely replaced with a lightheadedness that tilted her vision and exaggerated her movements.

She spat a curse, reaching lazily toward the revolving doors. "You drugged me," she stated, coating every word in venomous hate.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the doctor rise, his white coat blinding in the fluorescent lighting. "You were in pain. I wanted to ease your worries." He paused. Then, as if suddenly realizing that she was departing, he beckoned, "No, no! Do not leave! I must—"

Cassandra nearly fell as she pushed through the revolving doors, entering the foreboding corridor once again. She was determined to escape the doctor's presence—to escape whatever fate he planned for her. She may be fleeing an ally, but the blood that sprinkled the doctor's attire promised her nothing but torture and a bleak death. She refused to take a risk, too afraid of the consequences that would punish her afterwards. She would rather run—run until she found an exit, or passed out from the foreign dosage she was administered.

The main corridor was fruitless, for only one door existed down the entire expanse; therefore, she had only one option left. The right hallway—the path to the bloodbath. She could only hope there was some alternate passage within that room. Besides, how else could one enter or exit this facility without a way to the outside world? How could one survive without access to resources?

This time, she _prayed_ her theory was right.

An outraged shout rang down the hallway. "No, no, no! Stop!" Heavy footsteps accompanied the voice, and Cassandra urged herself to run faster.

She slammed her shoulder against one of the doors, sending it wide open and welcoming whatever gruesome sight that lay beyond. Her vision was still muddy; therefore, she could not see the grisly details that composed the room. The putrid smell, however, delivered a blow to her senses, burning her nose and coating her throat with foul discoveries. Her faltering sprint slowed drastically—or rather, suddenly, for her stomach connected painfully with a metal table.

She groaned, forearms resting on the wet—_wet!_—metal. Her head spun, attempting to retain its grip on reality as she clumsily navigated around the obstacle. She ignored the warm droplets racing down her arms, focusing solely upon finding a door or an archway to progress through. She wildly scanned the room, turning on her heel while trying to forcibly blink the bleariness out of her eyes. Her inner fire was dwindling as she searched, the pressure, consequently, increasing as she heard the doctor's footsteps approach the double doors.

Just as the creak of the hinges reached her ears, Cassandra's eyes caught the dull glow of a brass doorknob, the wood it was attached to hidden from sight by the towering medicine cabinet that sat adjacent to it. She gasped before floundering toward the seemingly secret door, snatching the doorknob and twisting it open.

"You must not go down there! Please!" The doctor—strangely—sounded genuine, as if he truly cared about her safety. Perhaps he did, but Cassandra was too fearful—too _muddled_ to consider staying. She shoved the door open, sparing a glance at the descending stairs before hastening down the steps. More pleas echoed from above, but Cassandra did not care. She felt an onrush of relief—of _freedom_.

But, something changed. Her breathing was labored, and the darkness that engulfed her—oh, how different the staircase was from the waiting room!—seemed to squeeze every essence of life from her body. She became sluggish, and her boots dragged dangerously across the steps.

Then, suddenly, her right foot met nothing but air, and she fell forward. She half-expected to tumble down the rest of the staircase, but her body never met a solid force. She simply descended, cutting through the blackness with disturbing speed.

She was tempted—no, _wanted_ to scream; however, she did not retain the breath in her lungs to do so. She sunk silently.

* * *

_Wake up._

Her mind was foggy, but the voice was clear and resonating.

_Wake up_.

A sliver of light slipped through the seams, and she shifted away from the harsh glare. She could not possibly open her eyes to _that_.

_Manders._

Manders? Who called her by her surname? A majority of the officers back at the station—right. Now she was thinking idiotically.

_Manders, wake up._

_ Wake up._

_ Wake up._

"Wake up!"

Cassandra gasped, bolting upright and holding her hands up defensively. A surprised Connelly jolted backwards, gesturing for her to calm down before gingerly placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Good, I thought I was goin' to have to drag ya to the ambulance." He stood, extending a hand toward the shaken woman. "Come on, we can't wait around. We have to move."

Cassandra inhaled deeply, firmly clasping Connelly's hand and allowing him to haul her to her feet. She blinked twice, a stray hand rubbing her neck before wandering toward her left eye. She felt no injuries on her skin. Then she glanced down at her body, only to find her clothes covered in dust and small debris—no blood whatsoever on the cloth. Had she been dreaming this entire time?

"Hey, didn't you hear me? We have to _go_," Connelly stressed, the ground rumbling violently as if to add promise to his words.

Cassandra lifted her chin, taken aback. Her jaw was slack as she dumbly turned toward Krimson City—except, there was no city any more. Only collapsing buildings, buckling roads, and clouds of smoke. Krimson City was falling to pieces, fragmenting and sinking into the ground, as if the Earth wished to swallow the city out of existence.

A hand grasped her elbow and roughly yanked her away from the devastation, directing her toward an ambulance. Cassandra caught a glimpse of Julie Kidman's inflectionless features before the opposing woman disappeared into the back of the emergency vehicle, shutting the doors solidly behind her. The action forced Cassandra into action (not the tumult of foul language that ripped through Connelly's throat) and she strode toward the aforementioned ambulance. She vaguely realized that the drugs the doctor had given her were gone, its affects having died long ago—or, at least, that was what she was led to believe. After the spectacle her _imagination_ had concocted, Cassandra was wary upon what was real and what was an illusion.

Connelly proceeded her, opening the passenger door, climbing inside, and shifting over to the driver's seat. Cassandra followed him moments afterward, tugging the door closed behind her. Still mildly baffled, she swiveled in her seat to stare into the back of the ambulance. Julie was there, of course, sitting closest to the window that allowed easy view to the rear; however, two other passengers accompanied Kidman—people that Cassandra had never seen before in her life. A balding man with a doctor's garb (she shuddered at the reminder) sat next to a white-haired, young man who seemed to be muttering phrases to himself. The doctor appeared to be fond of the white-haired man, trying to soothe his panicking partner.

Cassandra wanted to ask Connelly who the additional passengers were; however, more pressing issues plagued her mind. She turned sharply toward the officer. "Where are Sebastian and Joseph?"

"They—" He stopped, something catching his eye as he glanced back toward the hospital. He cursed, putting the ambulance in reverse. "Hold on."

"What are you—"

Cassandra never received the opportunity to complete her sentence before the ambulance jerked backwards. Cassandra dug her heels into the floorboards and gripped the passenger seat, the momentum of the reversing ambulance attempting to smash her against the dashboard. Her eyes darted to the side mirror, watching as the bumper of the ambulance turned a corner and neared a gaping hole. Her breath caught in her throat when the emergency vehicle came to a jarring halt, and her muscles tightened painfully as she waited for the inevitable sensation of plummeting into the chasm's unknown depths.

Instead, she saw Connelly fumble with the radio, flipping a switch and shouting into the microphone: "Detective!"

She snapped her head in the direction of Beacon Mental Hospital, lips parting in a surprised gasp when she saw the familiar face of Sebastian Castellanos. He _was_ alive. But where was Joseph?

Connelly interrupted her racing thoughts. "Get in! _Get in!_" he yelled desperately.

Another quake shook the ground, and the boom of shattered glass echoed from above. Cassandra peered upwards, observing helplessly as the windows of the hospital exploded in a flurry of glistening shards—shards that fell to earth, their sharp edges pointing toward Sebastian.

"_Sebastian!_"

The veteran detective fled—or, rather, he tried, but his right leg dragged across the pavement, slowing his progress considerably. Cassandra, panicked, struggled to open the door to let Sebastian inside, her hands shaking and her lungs drawing in short breaths. Her fingers barely wrapped around the handle when, suddenly, the back of the ambulance began to tip precariously into the chasm. Connelly muttered unintelligible words under his breath, shifting the gear and slamming his foot down on the pedal. The ambulance hesitated briefly before shooting forward, earning multiple cries from the jostled passengers.

However, despite their luck, Cassandra knew they were missing a key factor in their success—Sebastian was still struggling to reach the ambulance. He was still caught in the chaos.

"Connelly, slow down! We can't leave Sebastian!" Cassandra urged.

"Then get him in, Manders! Or else we're all _dead_!"

The last word rang a familiar, hollow memory from her nightmare; however, she refused to allow her fear to deter her. She could wallow in her misery later; not now, for Sebastian's life would be snuffed away by her ignorance.

She leaned her upper body out of the open window, gaze landing upon the endangered veteran detective as he sprinted clumsily after the ambulance. Cassandra proffered her hand, fingers stretching as far as her hand could withstand. "Grab my hand!" she encouraged, her voice drowning in the din of the collapsing city.

Sebastian miraculously heard her words—or perhaps he simply noticed her outstretched appendage—and clamped his own sweaty palm around hers. Cassandra tugged, her bicep trembling under the strain; however, she never let go, helping her fellow detective reach the open window. His other hand found a grip on the door, and Cassandra's own free palm clung to the fabric on his shoulder and gave one final yank. Sebastian came tumbling into the passenger seat, compressed to her side as they shared the small area. Cassandra bent her left leg awkwardly around the gear shift and her hip dug painfully into the center console. It was uncomfortable, and Cassandra suddenly felt more appreciative of Connelly's police cruiser and her wedged position between Julie and Joseph. Nevertheless, she was thankful that Sebastian was safe—that was more important than her luxury.

The ambulance bounced along the unleveled asphalt as it rounded around the center of the courtyard and smashed through the gates. Cassandra felt weightless for a moment as she rose a few inches before landing in her seat again, a hiss emitting from her throat while a grunt passed Sebastian's lips.

"Thanks for the assist back there," he gritted out, adjusting his right leg. Cassandra saw crimson dribbling from an open wound, the torn cloth around the injury doused in dark blood. Her heart leapt at the sight, but she avoided drawing attention to the factor. She could do nothing to heal the veteran detective—not here, not now.

Therefore, she merely shook her head. "Don't thank me yet. We still have to escape this catastrophe," she breathed. Then, in fearful realization, she faced Sebastian worriedly. "Where's Joseph? He went in there with you."

Sebastian appeared stunned at the question, his features forming a blank expression. He twisted his torso to gaze into the back of the ambulance, his chest pressed against her upper arm. She could feel his thrumming heart beating vehemently, as if attempting to escape the confines of his ribs.

He finally leaned back. He seemed uncharacteristically dumbfounded. "I thought he had already made it out," he mumbled. He glanced toward Connelly. "Hey, where's Joseph?"

Connelly sighed heavily, eyes never deviating from the road. "Man, I'm sorry; but he never came out. I'da waited, but between gettin' Manders to her feet and gettin' a vehicle to transport all of us—and the entire city fallin' apart…" His words trailed to silence, and he struggled to finish his explanation. "Just be happy I got you outta there."

Sebastian ran a hand down his face, turning to look out the front windshield. Cassandra felt numb, her shoulders sagging once she fully realized that they had left Joseph at the hospital. He was alone—or, worse, he was dead. She heaved a disappointed sigh, dropping her gaze and listening to the muffled conversation among the passengers in the back of the ambulance.

Her moment of respite and grief ended abruptly, though, for a thunderous roar erupted behind them.

Connelly cursed bitterly. "There's no going back," he wheezed, voice cracking with unknown emotion.

Cassandra glanced at the side mirror herself, blood freezing in her veins once she saw the road disappearing behind them, sending clouds of dirt, debris, and smoke into the air in its wake. Sebastian noticed the phenomenon as well, twisting around and poking his head out of the window. He followed Connelly's example, spitting out a string of curses, as if insulting the fragmenting ground would halt the ensuing calamity.

Then, the corner of a building appeared just above the ambulance.

A pitiful cry of alarm tore through Cassandra's throat as she leaned away from the windshield, hoping to avoid the collapsing tower. The ambulance barely avoided destruction, the resulting tremor lifting the emergency vehicle off the ground for a terrifying moment. Cassandra felt Sebastian's hand grip her elbow, keeping her from flying out of her seat and crushing her skull against the roof.

Connelly swerved to the left, speeding down the sidewalk and alternately colliding with the row of businesses on the left and the parked cars on the right. The path was hardly smooth, and Cassandra could see an abandoned truck barricading the sidewalk ahead of them. Connelly kept driving, waiting until the last second to veer away from the truck and return to the road, another falling object striking the asphalt next to the ambulance.

There was a brief lapse of peace afterwards, and Sebastian loosened his hold on Cassandra's arm and relaxed against the seat, exhaling exasperatedly. Cassandra wanted to enjoy his same relief; however, a glint from an approaching building drew her attention. She leaned forward, squinting as she observed the tall structure—then, suddenly, she detected the oddity.

The tower was splitting in half, moving to the left—or, rather, the _ground_ was sliding to the left, as if the Earth wished to trap them in Krimson City forever.

"Sebastian, Connelly," she beckoned, tone raspy. She did not wait for an answer or acknowledgement from the two men, merely pointing ahead at the dilemma. Cassandra heard the beginning '_s_' to Sebastian's infamous swear word, but the rattling rumble that rang in her ears whisked away the rest of the phrase.

"What do we do?" she asked, temporarily paralyzed in her stupor. She failed to realize that Connelly had not slowed down, keeping the pedal plastered to the floorboards.

"Pray," Connelly replied simply, leaning against the steering wheel, as if the action would force the ambulance to travel faster.

The gap ahead narrowed, an empty bus claiming half of the available space. Cassandra's lips moved soundlessly, but she was unsure upon what she was saying. She only hoped her mindless chant saved their lives.

The ambulance clipped the front of the bus before darting through the opening and zipping down the road, untouched. Cassandra cupped a hand over her mouth, her throbbing heart aching and her mind numb with pure shock. She glanced over at Sebastian, meeting his gaze in silent confirmation: _we lived; we're safe._

The drive was utterly silent for several minutes as Connelly cautiously navigated through the city, heaving breaths and whispers from the rear the only interruptions that broke the unsettled peace. The occasional tremor would rock the ambulance, but the disturbance did not upset the passengers greatly—nothing compared to the destruction they had drove through earlier.

Cassandra and Sebastian shifted often, attempting to find a satisfying medium as they shared the passenger seat. If Cassandra had not been occupied by her strange nightmare, the loss of Joseph, and the fall of Krimson City, she might have blushed at some of their awkward positions.

At some point, Sebastian had queried about the radio, and Cassandra had mutely readjusted to give him easy access to the aforementioned device. Since then, Sebastian kept switching among the channels, receiving static from every end.

The ambulance was just entering a tunnel when Sebastian finally stopped, scrubbing his forehead in frustration. "Are we cut off from everyone?" he asked, directing the question to no one in particular. Cassandra did not bother to answer, staring blankly ahead. Thankfully, Connelly decided to satisfy the veteran detective's musing.

"Everyone must be dead," the officer replied quietly.

Sebastian shook his head indignantly, as if defying the notion—as if he did not want to believe Connelly. He turned slightly, glancing at the three rear passengers who, for the majority of the time, seemed nonexistent. "Everyone all right back there?" he asked.

Cassandra heard Julie's clear tone above the drone of the emergency vehicle. "Just a few bumps. We're fine, otherwise."

Cassandra furrowed her brow when she detected a soft voice; however, she was unable to form any words from the vague muttering. She strained her ears, somewhat curious as to what was being spoken; unfortunately, another male—the doctor, undoubtedly—decided to add to the conversation, interrupting Cassandra's concentration.

"We will be once we're far away," the doctor confirmed.

Sebastian nodded, facing forward again. "A little further and we'll be fine," he said. Then, his gaze landed on Cassandra. Aforementioned woman could feel his hard stare, but she was unwilling to openly acknowledge him. Finally, Sebastian asked her, "How are you holding up, Manders?"

A thousand responses flooded her brain, but she only chose one, simple answer: "I'm fine." She could have sworn that her dull tone could have rivaled Julie's own inflectionless tenor. She hated the comparison.

Therefore, to correct her solemn mood, she countered Sebastian's enquiry. "And how about you, Sebastian?" Her eyes locked onto the laceration on his right calf, a grimace shadowing her features further. "You came out of that hospital with a nasty wound."

Sebastian shifted his leg, a frown tugging at his lips. "To be honest, I forgot it was there." He shrugged, as if he dealt with such serious injuries daily. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you how I got it."

Cassandra's eyebrows rose high on her forehead, her head finally swiveling in Sebastian's direction. "Believe you?" she parroted, keeping her voice low. "You wouldn't believe _me_ if I told you what happened after you and Jo—after you entered the hospital."

"Yeah?" he huffed in dry humor. "Perhaps we should exchange tales somet—"

He sentence cut off abruptly as soon as he glanced at the rear view mirror. Then, violently, he spun around, staring through the window viewing into the back of the ambulance.

Cassandra, utterly baffled, turned with him. She found nothing but the three passengers huddled together on the bench. "What's wrong?" she asked Sebastian, shifting to give the veteran detective some more space. He never responded, gaze glued to some unidentifiable object. Cassandra shook her head minutely, squinting as she tried to perceive whatever Sebastian was looking at.

Then, the radio began to hum, filling with static that progressively increased in frequency. Cassandra's wide eyes fell on the device. She knew that warning sound too well. "Turn it off," she said, voice barely above a scratchy whisper.

Sebastian snapped his head in her direction. Her utterance had gained his full concern. "What?" he pressed.

"The radio," she breathed. "You have to turn it off!"

Sebastian seemed hopelessly caught between granting her request and continuing his strange pursuit.

Fortunately for him, he never had to make a decision.

The ambulance jerked to the right, to the left, and back again, dangerously brushing the tunnel's concrete walls. Cassandra alternated between being pinned against the console to pinning Sebastian to the passenger door, earning grunts from both of them. A solid, sharp collision with the wall interrupted the sequence and sent Cassandra sliding forward in her seat. She raised her arms protectively to keep her head from meeting the dashboard, pain lancing through her bones and shooting down her spine when Sebastian pulled her upright.

Cassandra rested a hand on her forehead, turning toward Connelly in confusion—only to find the police officer in a frenzied state. She gasped, retracting from the ill officer and leaning toward Sebastian.

The veteran detective seemed just as surprised as she was, staring at the driver and exclaiming, "Connelly!"

Cassandra expected Connelly to shake his head, regain his senses, and correct the wild path the ambulance had taken; however, the only changes that occurred were the pulsating bubbles that arose on his face, the thin streams of blood that oozed from his nostrils, and the network of veins that bulged from his skin.

"What's happening to him?" she asked—although, she doubted Sebastian could hear her over the squealing tires.

Cassandra supposed she would never know if Sebastian received her question, for Julie chose that moment to press against the glass window and shout: "Look out!"

Both Cassandra and Sebastian snapped their eyes back to the road, the former's blood freezing at the bleak sight. The tunnel ended only a few yards ahead, the asphalt and concrete torn away and revealing a grey, foreboding sky. Connelly was going to send them plummeting off the cliff, and neither Cassandra or Sebastian could hinder his course—the ambulance was too fast, and the remaining road was too short to provide enough friction to prevent the crash. They were too late.

In seconds, the ambulance was soaring through the air, arching across the sky in a spectacular leap. Cassandra's eyes widened as she stared at the ground seemingly miles below them. The cloaked menace, her nightmare, the destruction of Krimson City—none of those events compared to the raw fear that wrapped around her brain and pierced her racing heart.

She could remember closing her eyes, shutting out the blurred world; she could remember multiple cries erupting throughout the emergency vehicle, ringing in her ears; she could remember leaving her seat and gravitating toward the windshield, only to be firmly tugged back and secured there by a pair of hands—all of these occurrences replayed perfectly in her memory.

However, she never remembered hitting the ground, the arms of blissful unconsciousness welcoming her for a second time.

* * *

**To the** **Reviewers:**

_**DestinyIntertwined: ** _Thank you, and I'm glad that you have found my work interesting! Hopefully, Cassandra flows well into _The Evil Within _story as this tale progresses; and, believe me, she will be placed into several horrific situations - but whether she retains her sanity or not is questionable. I suppose we shall see soon enough... ;)

Also, you are not alone upon finding Ruvik intriguing; truly, I would love to add much more to his role in this story, if only to explore his character a bit more. He is the mastermind behind this world, after all.

Again, thank you for the review, and I hope you enjoyed Chapter II as well!

**_Forgetful Insanity: _**Here is the next Chapter, as promised; and thank for reviewing! I hope not to disappoint!

**_EnigmaUniverse: _**Well, I would not say my writing is flawless - I still see room for improvement whenever I glance back over the Chapters. Nevertheless, I am highly flattered that you enjoy my story so much, and I thank you greatly for your wonderful review! I am hoping Chapter II keeps up the momentum and keeps you involved! :)

**_Leyshla Gisel: _ **Here's the new update! Hope you liked it!


	3. Chapter 3: Wicked

**Author's Note: **Welcome back, dear readers, and I am glad to finally present Chapter 3 to all of you. I apologize for the lateness of this update, but with Thanksgiving, baking, and a brief period of illness, I have been quite preoccupied. Luckily, though, that is behind us, and the schedule has been decently cleared up. I thank you greatly for your patience :)

Now, on a more _important note_, there is an element of the story I wish to address. That element is the 'hospital' that Sebastian revisits throughout the game. Of course this place will play an important role in the plot (details that you shall discover much later), but not the same role as it had in the game. Chiefly, in my eyes, this hospital was a place to upgrade Sebastian; but, in a story arc such as this, it seems awkward to translate that use into writing - at least directly. Could you imagine voluntarily sitting in a chair and injecting yourself with foreign substances that supposedly 'enhance' your abilities, over and over again? Exactly. So, though I may not reveal exactly what I plan to do with this place or what exactly it _is _(yet), I wanted to give fair warning upon the changes that will, eventually, occur.

All right, I won't keep you all distracted anymore. A huge thank you to all the followers, favorites, and reviewers, and I hope that you all enjoy Chapter 3!

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within whatsoever. Any OCs or scenes not seen in the game are rightfully my creations and property.**_

* * *

**Chapter III:**

**Wicked**

"_It is the dim haze of mystery that adds enchantment to pursuit." –Antoine Rivarol_

* * *

Various hues of red—that was the only color Sebastian's brain could register as the world blinked in and out of existence. He was faintly aware of the pristinely dressed man to his left and the nurse at his feet, both of their discolored faces inflectionless. The ceiling flowed past him in a blur and the overhead lights would appear and disappear at regular intervals, hinting to Sebastian that these indifferent people were pushing him somewhere—down a _hallway_, actually, if the close proximity of the walls and the steady, unwavering pace of his company meant anything.

He blinked, his head rolling to the side. He caught a glimpse of the floor and the endless stretch of chain-link blockading the thick pipes that were integrated into the walls. His brow furrowed in confusion, drops of sweat racing across his forehead after the disturbance. Where was he being carted off to? His last memory was in an ambulance, tumbling down a cliff and plummeting toward the ground. And, before that, he had watched an entire _city_ fall to ruins. Therefore, how had he ended up here? Where _was_ here? And where were the others?

Sebastian grunted, hazily staring at the ceiling again. His muscles were taut as he attempted to bend his knees and flex his arms—except, he found the simple motion impossible, his limbs stubbornly remaining stationary. Jaw clenching, he tried again, summoning whatever strength his body still retained; but, nothing changed. He was unable to move, despite his best efforts.

Sucking in a breath, he lifted his head to examine his dilemma, his hands curling into fists once he found the source of his restricted mobility. Restraints wrapped around his ankles and wrists, pinning him to the metallic table he was lying on and refusing to bend to his ferocious will.

His lips moved, demanding to be released; however, his voice failed to translate the message—he spoke muted words. The man and nurse did not even acknowledge his obvious struggle, their steps never faltering as they guided him onward to his unknown destination. He tried to crane his neck backwards to see where their current path ended; however, the correct angle was impossible to attain. He only saw the ceiling, seemingly traveling miles ahead of him.

A handful of disorienting seconds passed before the environment surrounding Sebastian changed. The frame of a wide doorway arched over his head as he entered a new room. His eyes darted everywhere, catching glimpses of cabinetry and discarded gurneys. He strained against the bands around his wrists and ankles once more, the desperate attempt at escape only tiring his already exhausted muscles and pinching his skin. The man and nurse who had escorted him straightened, never casting a single glance toward Sebastian. They merely turned their backs to him and sauntered down the pathway they had just taken, melting into the red-stained shadows.

Sebastian's chest rose and fell heavily, as if a weight had been placed on his ribs, forcing him to strive for every breath of oxygen he desired. The room tilted occasionally, imprinting images on his brain before it faded away into a new, altered vision. The abnormality summoned a dull headache and increased the rapidity of his heart, the rush of his blood echoing in his ears. Truly, he was tempted to simply close his eyes and sleep off the strange visages that marred his mind and the accompanying side effects that poisoned his body.

But his hopes of recovery were crushed when a wet _smack_ garnered his attention. He leaned forward, sweat slipping down his face and dripping off the tip of his chin. He saw a hand resting on the metal next to his foot, fingers splayed and nails biting into the table. Then, another hand joined its partner, slamming next to Sebastian's opposite foot. A morphed head peeked over the edge soon afterward, swaying to the left and right, as if unbalanced. Shoulders followed, along with a drooped, deformed figure that hovered over the end of the table.

Sebastian was given two, numbing seconds before the disfigured creature began to slink toward him, crawling onto the table and sluggishly hauling his lower body off the ground. Sebastian, lips curled in a disgusted scowl, fought against his restraints as the monstrous being lumbered forward. His escape was unreachable, though—he had discovered this startling fact during his trip to this nightmarish room, long before this terrifying moment. He was merely denying the inevitable outcome that awaited him once the creature gained its senses and struck. He could watch, but he could not act. It was torturous.

A palm grasped his shoulder, and Sebastian swiveled his head away, every muscle in his body tensing in bleak anticipation. Through his crimson, blurry vision, he saw a fist wavering in the air, high above his head. Unfortunately, that position was only temporary, and the clenched hand swung down at him—

And it vanished.

Sebastian woke up, bolting upright and gasping for breath. A thin layer of sweat coated his skin, creating an uncomfortable, sticky sensation. His breathing was quick and raspy—a resultant of panic, perhaps—as he observed his new surroundings, gratefully noting the lack of restraints pinning him down and the dispersion of the monster that had attempted to crush his skull; however, he remained wary of his new location, examining the layout of the area with scrutiny

Filthy, linoleum floors covered the ground, meeting the rough, stone walls in a rectangular shape. He himself sat on a weak mattress that bowed under his weight, groaning with every shift of his stiff frame. To his right stood a desk adorned with newspapers, an empty mug, and a lamp balancing precariously on the corner (a useless light source, he supposed, considering the thick layer of dust that was draped across its surface). An old-fashioned heater sat a couple yards away from the desk, hugging the stone wall; and, opposite of the aforementioned heater, a toilet and a suspended sink sat consecutively at the foot of his makeshift bed.

Sebastian swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood on his feet; however, the pain coursing through his aching body forced him to hunch forward and press his hand gingerly against his ribs. His free palm reached toward the desk, his fingers curling around the edge as he regained his balance. What had happened to him? Had the ambulance truly crashed? Had he actually survived that fall? If so, who could have possibly rescued him from that catastrophe? The world had been thrown into chaos when he had slipped away from reality; therefore, how many survivors would be able—no, _willing_ to pull him from the wreckage and transport him _here_? The chances were slim; yet, his accommodation did not melt into a fictional pool—his theory revealed nothing more than the pure ludicrous state his situation had taken.

Exhaling, his gaze flitted to the desk's surface. A particular article on the front page of one of the newspapers snatched his attention, and he leaned forward, squinting as he mumbled the words aloud: "'Bodies Found in Lakeside Town. Cause of Death Remains a Mystery.'" He frowned, glancing through the details briefly before turning away from the post. He had read that same article in the past, and the revelation certainly was not a grand, new discovery—it was dated, unsolved. Why had he been given old newspapers? Was the article relevant? Was he skipping over an important clue?

A quick scan revealed that the other newspapers were as old as the first, their dates all clustered together into a single week of news. Frustration twisted his features, mingling with a grimace as he shuffled away from the desk. A deep, burning agony kindled around his ribs, and his legs were stiff and numb, his right calf occasionally flaring with pain whenever his stride became too adventurous and eager.

He had barely advanced a yard from the desk when the room flickered, shifting suddenly to a different scene—_flames; broken glass; a face_—before returning to its normal, desolate aura. Sebastian blinked, attempting to recall the flash of imagery he had witnessed; however, his brain replayed the memory too quickly for him to grasp, answering his curiosity with a fragmented, inaccurate display—a skeleton to the original.

Shaking his head, Sebastian focused on the door up ahead. Light filtered through the barred window, creating a striped rectangle on the linoleum floors. "Hello?" he called, adding power to his tone in order to amplify his voice. "Anybody there?"

He drew closer, bones aching with every stumbling step he took. Gratefulness swelled in his chest when his palm finally touched the cool metal, providing him a second support in reward for his minor accomplishment to cross the room. He squinted, shielding his eyes against the harsh light of the outside world as he leaned his face close to the bars and peered through the portal. He was immediately met with a door similar to his own, its barricaded window dark and lifeless; but, this hardly concerned him, for he was distracted by the click and scuttle of roaches swarming on the space adjacent to the dull door.

Sebastian breathed a curse, propping his forearm against the doorframe and studying the strange phenomenon. Of course, he had dealt with roaches before—it was a common battle he had to fight to exterminate the pesky creatures. An endless train of them scurrying up the wall, though? He could not proclaim witnessing such a spectacle outside the cliché horror film.

His attention remained set on the roaches for several long seconds (it seemed an hour) until a change in scenery occurred. A woman donning a nurse's garb entered his vision, features impassive and appearance impeccably neat. Sebastian regarded her warily, shifting away from the door instinctually.

Then, suddenly, recognition dawned in his mind. He visibly recoiled. "You're that nurse—you _brought_ me here," he said.

The aforementioned woman seemed to ignore his statement, reaching forward and unlocking the door to his cell. "Are we awake?" she asked, voice monotone with a hint of loftiness. She pulled down the handle and pushed the metallic door open, the hinges creaking shrilly.

His jaw tightened, and he drew his arm around his ribs more defensively. He had yet to judge whether this nurse was an adversary or an ally to him. Still, he felt compelled to provide his own question, probing: "Is everyone else all right? The city?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" she countered, tilting her head to the side in a curious fashion. She clicked her tongue. "You are the only soul here—right now."

She turned, disappearing around the corner while her heels translated her progress down the hall. Sebastian, momentarily dumbfounded, hurriedly stumbled toward the door, pressing his palm against the doorframe as he stepped over the threshold.

"There were five people with me in that ambulance!" he called after the woman, shoulders sagging in weariness. "Are you telling me they're—"

The nurse was nowhere in sight. Even her footsteps had faded.

Sebastian ducked his head, exhaling exasperatedly. After collecting his thoughts, he lifted his gaze and briefly studied the hallway. He glanced to the left first, noting the two additional doorways (identical copies to his own) and the elegant mirror dignifying the end of the passage (although, the reflective glass held no image, a deep grey smothering the surface). The roaches that had been swarming the walls were absent, allowing Sebastian to see the uncleanly concrete with its spindly cracks and its roughly-drawn symbols.

Sebastian's gaze sharpened, and he shuffled toward the opposing wall, gaze locked on the aforementioned symbol adorning the concrete next to the door. He brushed his fingertips over the familiar sign, lips pressed in a firm line as he recalled the photograph he had presented to Joseph and Cassandra. A blocky-style depiction on the victim's arm—a target, or a signification that they had been facing the work of a serial killer. Why was it here, though? What significance did it pose?

He scanned the other three doors, finding several more posted around the two doors further down the hall; his own, however, was pure innocence, free of any imperfections. But what did that mean for him? Who had been in those other cells?

Dragging a hand down his features, he stored the symbol's image in the back of his mind for later examination. For now, he decided to trail after the nurse, directing his feet to the right and hobbling down the remainder of the hall. A fifth, open door led into a lobby with black and white tiles and unkempt wallpaper. A reception desk was stationed at his immediate left while the right side of the room offered a couple of chairs; a couch shoved in the corner; a newspaper stand; an old phonograph; fake plants; a grandfather clock; and a billboard covered with various papers.

A single eyebrow arched on his brow as he absorbed his surroundings. "Is this some sort of hospital?" he mumbled, the question intended for no one in particular.

The nurse, however, decided to intervene. "This place is necessary for you," she explained, suddenly appearing behind the reception desk. Sebastian snapped his eyes in her direction, cautiously wandering toward the aforementioned desk. She watched him, calm and collected as she added, "You're always welcome here."

_Is that supposed to make me feel better?_ Sebastian opted not to utter the snide comment. If this lady was willing to offer him some form of help, he would play along for the time being.

"I've been hospitalized?" he prodded, resting his elbow on the counter for support. The throbbing aches were steadily increasing, he noticed, spiking with every contraction of his heart.

She cocked her head again. "I'm afraid I cannot answer that." Then, she gestured toward the counter before her where a stack of forms and a pen sat undisturbed. "Please," she urged, "sign in here."

Sebastian hesitated, eyeing the designated papers suspiciously. He wanted to deny the request, an odd instinct warning him of the unimaginable consequences. But, then he asked himself a simple question: what else was he supposed to do? This world he had plunged into was foreign to him—more mysterious and leery the further he traveled. He had no desire to deviate too far into the unknown; and this monotone, evasive nurse was his only guide. He would take the risk.

He snatched up the pen and jotted down his signature, the letters looping and curving across the bottom of the forum: _Sebastian Castellanos_.

The nurse hummed, seemingly pleased. "Without signing in, there is no way to ensure your future memories," she informed as she strode away, hips swaying and ponytail bouncing.

"'Ensure my future memories'?" he repeated. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Of course, the nurse never answered, only flipping a switch on the wall. "This way, please."

An iron-bar door, just a foot away from the bulletin board and the grandfather clock, swung open, groaning mournfully. A sigh escaped Sebastian's lips as he pushed away from the reception desk and shambled toward the new pathway. He passed a washbasin and another, grey-smothered mirror, the area reeking of multiple odors—odors that Sebastian could describe in one word.

"Smells like medicine," he remarked, his halfhearted humor failing to amuse.

The narrow space broadened, opening to another dreary space. An antique chair sat in the center, illuminated by a single, overhead light and accompanied by two suspended IV bags. He stopped, shaking his head in utter bafflement. What was this nurse going to make him do now?

A door opened behind him and, before he could turn around to find the source, the nurse passed him, saying, "You are all right. Please, relax."

Her attempt at comfort worked no wonders whatsoever on Sebastian, who stared after her blankly.

Fortunately, Sebastian was given no time to reply with a sarcastic retort, the woman's impassive voice instructing, "Please, have a seat."

Sebastian gaze shifted from the nurse to the antique chair, his suspicion growing rapidly. True, every bone in his body begged for him to sit and provide them with the rest they so desired; his mind, however, viewed the situation with outright mistrust, suggesting an alternative choice: _refuse_.

"You have no reason to be afraid." Sebastian guessed that the nurse withheld little patience; but, whether she was frustrated or not remained a mystery to him—much like the rest of this place.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, finally choosing to continue this act and sit down in the chair. The cushions were flat and the armrests were covered in filth, but the relaxed position eased his tense muscles and soothed the pain that arced through his body. His eyelids felt heavy, and his head touched the back of the chair, as if he were dozing. The thought certainly sounded amazing, but, of course, the peace was shattered within seconds of arriving.

The world rippled again—_heat radiated all around him; smoke filled his lungs; his right leg throbbed; hands were curled around his biceps_—before settling back into reality; this reality, however, became nightmarish, the snapping of locks echoing in his ears. Alarmed, Sebastian went to rise, only to find metal bands securing his wrists and ankles—oh, bitter déjà vu.

"You mustn't fight it," the nurse said. A contraption sat atop his head, the sharp tips of needles prodding his scalp. "This is for your own good."

The sound of a machine coming to life startled Sebastian, and he fought desperately against this new trap. "No! Stop!" he demanded, wriggling in his chair. His heart pounded and his adrenaline pumped furiously through his veins, fueling his desperate urge to escape the forthcoming—

_Pain._

Various needles sunk into his skin—most prominently, his _head_. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth as a jolt of agony shot down his spine and dispersed throughout his body. The world was dipped in crimson again, pulsating and flickering. His vision flitted between two scenes—this insane hospital and a blurred visage. Both felt real and tangible, yet they both fought to be the dominate reality in his brain. The struggle initiated a wracking migraine that forced him to shut his eyes and cut off the distorted world, the thrumming of his heart the only detail he truly focused upon.

Then, as quickly as the pain had emerged, it disappeared.

"There now, you see? All better," the nurse said, her voice originating somewhere from his right. He did not dare open his eyes until he was positive that he had a good grip on his senses.

The headpiece lifted, releasing Sebastian. The bands cuffing his wrists and ankles, however, were not so kind, remaining stationary. "Lady," Sebastian began as he waited impatiently for the other restraints to finally retract, "am I going crazy?"

His arms and legs were still trapped, and his panic rekindled. He tugged against the unforgiving metal, his vision tainted in a deeper red. The roar of a fire surrounded him, reverberating in his skull and warming his skin. His eyes darted wildly to his feet as he watched a wall of orange flames explode from the ground, crackling and spitting with rage and vengefulness.

Sebastian heard the nurse answer his question, the din of the fire drowning her voice. He glanced toward her, eyes widening as he saw the flames engulfing her body. Still, though, she had that curious twinkle in her eyes as she said, "Now what makes you say that?"

The flames snaked up his legs and brushed his forearms, the inferno rising up all around him. The chair wobbled as Sebastian struggled, searing heat racing up his back and cupping the back of his neck. He released a pained cry, the world submerging completely into crimson before merging with darkness in sweet unconsciousness.

"_I'll be waiting._"

* * *

Sebastian awoke to the distant crackling of a churning fire and the wisps of smoke that filled his burning lungs. A dry cough tore through his raw throat, urging him to sit upright and raise a hand to his mouth and nose to block the invading fumes. His vision was hopelessly hazy, but he managed to distinguish the flickering flames several yards below him, consuming a familiar vehicle and ruining its vibrant red and white paintjob.

_The ambulance_.

His discomfort dissipated, replaced with concern as he scanned the emergency vehicle. His eyes flitted to every window, searching desperately for any recognizable form amongst the dense smoke and orange blaze; however, to his surprise—and relief—the ambulance seemed abandoned, its carcass left to scorch in the dark woods. Still, that did not settle his consternation. Five other people had accompanied him in that ambulance, fleeing a collapsing city and driving off a steep cliff—where were they if they were not trapped in the emergency vehicle? How had _he_ landed here, safely separated from the ravenous fire that afflicted the ambulance? Someone had to have dragged him away from the inferno.

Twisting his torso, he began to search the area around him; and, immediately, his gaze found a feminine figure reclining against a nearby tree trunk, eyes half-lidded and head tilting lazily to the side. A thin stream of blood trickled from a shallow cut across her temple, wickedly matching her disheveled hair.

A name left his lips before he fully processed the woman's identity. "Manders?" he called, a sharp cough following the single word. The woman—Cassandra Manders, his mind finally recalled—furrowed her brow, straightening her posture and staring in his general direction. She seemed baffled initially, but her awareness appeared to spark once she focused on him.

"Sebastian," she responded in a greeting tone. She scrubbed at the side of her face, smearing the trickle of blood onto her hand. She glanced at her palm distastefully for a moment before regarding Sebastian again. "You okay?"

"Never better," he huffed, rolling onto his hands and knees before regaining his footing. His right calf quivered under his weight, and he examined the aforementioned appendage questioningly. The laceration he had received at Beacon Mental Hospital glowed a dull crimson in the firelight, earning a soft curse from Sebastian.

Cassandra's gaze followed his own. She frowned. "Your leg says otherwise," she noted, slowly standing as she used the tree trunk for support. "I may be able to find something around the ambulance. Something could have fallen out."

Sebastian switched his attention from his wound to the wrecked ambulance. He shook his head. "Not worth it. I'll manage," he decided. Cassandra, however, was already easing down the hillside, brown eyes focused intently on the emergency vehicle ravished by hungry flames. His fingers caught her shoulder as she passed him, her urgent pace nearly upsetting his balance. "I said, leave it. Let's find the others first, then we'll worry about my leg."

Cassandra turned to face him, eyebrows arched upward. "You barely managed to escape the hospital with that injury. Do you truly believe that you can stumble around a forest for God knows how long?" she asked, a biting edge to her tone.

Under different circumstances, Sebastian may have pursued the challenge and argued with her just as fervently; however, after what he had witnessed within the past hour, he decided to settle for a different approach—a calmer, quicker approach. "Look, we don't have time to scavenge the place for materials—_if_ anything survived the crash and the fire. Meanwhile, while we're squandering our time, everyone else could be in an equally critical condition." He retracted his hand, letting it fall back to his side as he shifted his weight. "And since it is _my_ well-being we are discussing, I can make the final decision upon what we do."

He gestured toward the crest of the hill, watching expectantly as Cassandra followed the motion and stared at the designated destination. She pursed her lips, releasing a gust of air that sent a few strands of her hair flying upward. "Fine," she quipped at last. Then, extending her hand, she added, "If you're that determined, fine; but at least let me help you."

Sebastian almost laughed at her strict stubbornness, but ultimately decided to suppress his amusement and let the subject slip. He draped an arm across her shoulders, her hand curling around the wrist of his aforementioned appendage while her opposite palm clung to the fabric across his back.

Sebastian would not call their trek up the hillside graceful, but he would admit (not aloud) that he appreciated Cassandra's assistance. With every awkward step he took along the uneven terrain, he could feel the flesh around the laceration stretch along the underlying muscle. It was as if he were experiencing the slice of the chainsaw for a second time—as if he were fleeing the bloody maniac and rushing toward the safety of the elevator once more. The memory made him grimace. Fortunately, Cassandra could not witness the expression due to the deep blackness that enwrapped them.

The roar of the fire faded behind them, replaced by the resounding caw of unseen crows and the snapping of twigs beneath Sebastian's and Cassandra's feet. No worn path or blatant signs were present to guide them through the maze of gnarled trees and tangled shrubbery—actually, if anyone asked, Sebastian would have shrugged and said, 'instinct.' Neither he nor Cassandra dictated which direction to trudge toward; they merely chose the easiest route up the hillside, avoiding the ancient oaks with their thick, bulging roots and the occasional rocky outcropping that jutted from the tall grass. It was a silently adopted system with no open acknowledgements or disagreements—_cooperation_.

Cassandra's boot crushed another fallen limb, startling a group of nearby crows. The black-feathered birds squawked and flew, spiraling upwards and melting into the night sky. Cassandra was distracted by the birds, her eyes following their whirlwind path; however, Sebastian's nose detected a wretched scent that garnered a greater part of his attention. His gaze left the departing crows and turned toward the slab of stone the birds had been perched on—although, he was hardly satisfied by the grisly sight that met his eyes. Sprawled across the ground was a dead animal, its hide torn wide open and its entrails displayed in a ghastly fashion—a former feast for a family of scavenging crows.

Cassandra seemed to finally loose interest in the aforementioned birds, for she lowered her head and followed Sebastian's stare, gasping, "Oh my God..."

Sebastian scowled. "Let's keep moving," he suggested—or, rather, urged, already stepping forward and tugging Cassandra alongside him. The redheaded detective was overly compliant, mimicking his stride.

A faint glow split through the thick blanket of darkness ahead of them, highlighting the mist that hung in the cool air. Again, Sebastian and Cassandra silently agreed to approach the beacon, their gait quickening as their hopes rose steadily. The slope they had been ascending flattened, and the surrounding foliage came to an abrupt halt, revealing a stone ledge overlooking a dirt road and a weatherworn shack with a yellow light emitting from its broken windows.

And, glimmering in the night, balancing precariously on the edge of the precipice, was a lit lantern.

Sebastian retracted from Cassandra's side, and the redheaded detective allowed his arm to slip off her shoulders, her own grip becoming lax. Sebastian approached the lantern, mindful of the steep drop-off inches away from his feet as he stooped down and curled his fingers around the handle. He held the lantern aloft and studied its warm glow, straightening back to his full height.

Cassandra joined him moments later, releasing a sigh as she basked in the light. Then, suddenly, she started, her attention diverted to the ground below. "Who is that?" she queried lowly, garnering Sebastian's interest. He peered down at the beaten road, pinpointing a humanoid figure sluggishly walking toward the shack.

His heart lifted in jubilance. Was that one of the others from the ambulance?

He waved his free hand, attempting to draw the person's attention. "Hey!" he shouted, his voice bouncing off the rocks and echoing throughout the forest. However, despite the ambitious greeting, the figure continued to trudge into the shack and disappear from view. Sebastian was hardly deterred.

Passing Cassandra and following the ledge to the right, he hopped down to a lower ridge, loose pebbles tumbling into the darkness after the unwelcomed disturbance. He began to hasten down the steep surface of the second landing, arms outspread for balance and eyes trained on the roughhewn rocks.

Up above, Sebastian could hear Cassandra hiss a curse before another set of fumbling footsteps joined his own. "Sebastian, wait—"

The majority of Cassandra's sentence was lost to Sebastian as his right foot slipped from beneath him. He fell, gravity heaving him forward and the unforgiving ground eagerly meeting his body. The sharp contact made him grunt in pain, and the accompanying jabs only worsened his predicament as he toppled to the dirt road.

He eventually stopped, resting on his back at the base of the rocky crag. His left hand still held the lantern, his knuckles white from the strength of his grip; his opposite palm, however, cradled his thigh as his calf throbbed agonizingly from the jarring fall. He breathed a curse, forcing himself to sit upright and regain his bearings.

Cassandra—who had observed Sebastian's ungraceful descent and opted for a slower, safer pace—reached the foot of the cliff and jogged to his position. She released a heavy breath and placed her hands on either side of her hips. "Headfirst, huh?" she asked breathlessly. Though concern creased her features, Cassandra's voice was tinged with a sarcastic exasperation.

Sebastian spared her a glance. "Now's hardly the time for wisecracks," he countered, glowering.

She huffed a sigh, extending a hand toward him. Sebastian accepted the silent offer, clasping her hand and rising to his feet. Once he regained his balance, he mildly brushed away Cassandra's lingering support, mumbling a 'thanks' to the redheaded detective.

In turn, she nodded, gaze staring past his shoulder in a distracted manner. He could see her jaw visibly tauten, and he hastily turned around to investigate her source of distress. His eyes scanned the road initially, the dirt track eventually leading him to the illuminated shack he had seen his person of interest stumble into—except, there was a disturbing change to the desolate building. Through the wide, open doorway, there was a shadow displayed on the wall, depicting a humanoid figure hunkered down and clawing at some unidentifiable object on the ground.

Sebastian's muscles clenched as he edged down the road, his grip on the lantern becoming rather painful. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cassandra shadowing his side, lips pursed and features carefully neutral; however, Sebastian managed to detect her uneasiness through her stiff gait and balled fists, her right hand distinctly hovering near the holster on her hip—an _empty_ holster.

He paused when he reached the outskirts of the shack, raising his arm and placing a hand on Cassandra's shoulder—a wordless order to _stay_. She scrunched her nose in a stubborn, indignant expression, but she provided another nod nonetheless. Sebastian hesitated another moment before finally passing the lantern to the redheaded detective, figuring that the light emanating from the shack would provide efficiently for him.

He proceeded forward cautiously, his shaky exhales resembling a roaring wind to his ears. He anxiously watched the hunched shadow on the wall, wondering if the figure would notice his approach—and, even more pressing, whether the figure would attack if disturbed. Sebastian had no gun, having lost the weapon somewhere within Beacon Mental Hospital—disarmed amongst the confusion.

But, perhaps he would not need it.

Glinting wickedly in the yellow light, Sebastian saw a handgun resting in the dirt, accompanied by a pair of handcuffs and a primed pocket knife. Sebastian knelt down, grasping the handle of the abandoned gun and slipping his forefinger over the trigger. _Now_ he was armed.

Straightening, Sebastian continued onward, approaching the entrance with soft footsteps. He kept his eyes plastered to the shadow until he finally rounded the corner, his body bathed in warm light. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the change in brightness as he attempted to identify the possible threat before him. Immediately, the blue attire the figure wore registered as familiar, his brain recalling the Krimson City police force—and, more specifically, Officer Connelly.

As soon as the name flitted across his mind, he muttered aloud, "Connelly?"

Sebastian regretted his reflexive utterance, for soon after he mentioned the officer, his gaze landed upon the unmoving figure sprawled on the ground. He saw too late the shining lake of blood that surrounded the body and splotched the officer's uniform.

Then a mauled head fell to the ground, splashing into the crimson pool beneath it and splattering the substance further.

Sebastian numbly shifted backwards, the gun in his hand momentarily forgotten once his ears registered an inhuman growl erupting from the throat of the former, _living_ being. Slowly, the officer turned, shoulders sagging and head lolled awkwardly to the side in twisted curiosity. The yellow-tinted light was unable to illuminate the officer's features, for his hunched form guarded his face from the glow; however, a blinding streak of lightning remedied the problem, banishing away the shadows of the night with its electric white light—and in that brief second, Sebastian saw every gruesome detail that composed his opponent.

The face certainly belonged to Officer Connelly, but the man had been infected with bulging veins and hollow cysts that pulsated rhythmically. His eyes were bloodshot, and thin streams of crimson flowed from his nose and ears, pooling around the collar of his uniform and soaking into the blue cloth. He was the same as he had been before the ambulance crashed—he was still altered, with no obvious signs that he had ever reverted back to his former, healthy state.

Connelly snarled, revealing bloody teeth flecked with flesh. He rose, spinning on his heels and heaving great breaths. Then, he charged, arms flailing and an animalistic cry tearing past his lips.

Sebastian dodged to the left, mindful of his right leg as he reeled away from the rampaging Connelly. The officer stumbled, growling as he whipped around wildly in search of Sebastian; however, he forgot the veteran detective quickly, for his deranged gaze focused on the beacon of light farther down the road, held in the hand of another possible victim.

Cassandra was mortified.

Sebastian spat a curse, suddenly remembering the gun in his hand. "Connelly, stop!" he shouted before the officer could pursue the redheaded detective. Connelly's head snapped in Sebastian's direction, hands twitching uncontrollably and lips still curled back in a snarl. Sebastian lifted the handgun, lightly squeezing the trigger in preparation. "Connelly, I don't want to shoot you. Just—"

But Connelly was lost to Sebastian, consumed by his rage and madness. He sprinted toward Sebastian, arms outstretched and fingers grasping at empty air. Sebastian's instincts reacted faster than his brain, and he fired the first bullet. Blood spouted from the new hole in Connelly's shoulder, and the officer howled in pain. He attempted to strike again, but Sebastian retaliated, another bullet sinking into the opposing officer's chest. Still, Connelly did not fall, his anger fueling his actions.

The third shot did not fail, though. Sebastian aimed higher, pulling the trigger and watching as Connelly's skull fractured under the impact. The officer crumpled, the stench of his fresh blood swirling into the air and seeping into Sebastian's lungs.

Sebastian lowered the gun, exhaling laboriously. He stared at the deceased Connelly. "My God, Connelly," he murmured. He shifted forward, examining the infected corpse with a mixture of sympathy and disgust—a concoction that urged him to turn away. He glanced toward Cassandra, assuring himself that the redheaded detective remained unscathed. She was; however, the horror splayed across her features protested against her physical wellbeing.

Sebastian navigated around Connelly's body, trekking toward the shack. Before he disappeared into the building, he waved toward Cassandra, gesturing for her to join him. She seemed hesitant, but she eventually conceded and strode in his direction, eyes focused on the ground.

Sebastian slipped into the shack and skimmed the place, careful to avoid the gutted and headless form lying prone in the center of the room. He found nothing useful, except for the fallen lantern glowing in the corner. After a moment of debate, he claimed the lantern for himself, hooking the handle onto his belt and leaving the shack. If he and Cassandra ever became separated, they would each have their own light source.

Cassandra stood at the entrance, her gaze transfixed on Connelly's body. Sebastian cleared his throat and she faced him, lips pressed into a thin line.

She shook her head. "What _happened_ to him?" she asked, voice layered with an unknown emotion. Terror? Sadness? Either seemed possible.

Sebastian holstered his gun, frowning. "No idea. But whatever happened, it began on the ambulance," he said. Then, in sudden remembrance, he spoke, "Before Connelly lost his mind, you said something about the radio. You wanted to turn it off. Why?"

Cassandra furrowed her brow in visible confusion, and Sebastian felt just as bewildered when she stressed, "Did you not _hear_ it?"

"No—hear what?"

"That sound—that _ringing_. It was the exact same incident that happened in Connelly's police cruiser and at—"

She stopped, words dying in her throat. Sebastian shifted to face her fully, studying her carefully as he urged, "And where?"

She shook her head again. "I—I don't know. After you and Joseph went in that hospital, I—I guess I blacked out. I don't remember clearly." The last sentence was a mere mutter, and Sebastian struggled to catch the words—of course, the statement did little but add to his frustration.

"You don't remember, or you don't think I'll believe you?"

She regarded him with a frown. "What if I said the latter?"

Sebastian glanced around, shrugging. "Considering what's happened, I don't think much is going to surprise me."

"Right," she murmured. Then, nodding toward the dirt road, she added, "Well, if I'm going to be explaining myself, perhaps we should keep moving. I don't know if I can linger around here—not with Connelly."

Sebastian jerked a nod in understanding. "I couldn't agree more."

Surprisingly, Cassandra still had the heart to offer him assistance—offer him relief from his aching leg. He huffed in silent, dry laughter this time; however, he was no less grateful as he accepted her help and trudged down the dirt road, listening to the solemn story Cassandra had to share.

If only Cassandra knew how disturbed he was to hear her relate her encounter with the cloaked, burned man—how _similar_ the attack was, along with the resulting aftermath.

But what did it all mean?

* * *

**To the Reviewers:**

_**Leyshla Gisel: ** _I have not played the game, either; I have actually been watching YouTube videos of the game, hence my knowledge of the universe. However, I do plan upon buying the game in order to play it for myself. I will undoubtedly fail miserably, considering my lack of skills in survival horror, XD. Thank you for your review, and I hope you liked Chapter 3!

**_yorkmanic89: _**Thank you, and I hope you enjoy this new Chapter, too :)

**_EnigmaUniverse: _**Once again, thank you :) You are amazingly kind to say that.

As for the story itself, the horror can be difficult to capture. It is just those little moments when you sit back and wonder, 'Is there enough tension? Is it terrifying, or even eerie?' The pressure is doubled as well, considering the world of _The Evil Within_ and how perfectly the horror flows. Therefore, when you told me that I had attained this element in my story (especially for Chapter 2; that was a definite goal), it was a relief. Hopefully, I can maintain the horror and tension throughout the rest of this tale; but, for now, I am very glad that I have made the first step. Thank you once again for another wonderful review; as you can see, it truly helped :)

_**RainDancerXx: ** _I was surprised to find a review from you in my inbox, and I was taken aback by your words, too. Seriously, thank you. You brought a smile to my face and gave me that little nudge of confidence. That is more than I could ask for :) Also, I must say, your _The Evil Within_ fanfic is absolutely stunning!

Again, thank you for your review; I hope to not disappoint.


	4. Chapter 4: Disoriented

**Author's Note: ** Hello again, dear readers, and welcome to Chapter 4! Now, I will say, this Chapter was originally longer; however, with its word count just passing 10k words, I decided to split its contents in half. I believe it shall be easier this way - for all of us. Also, I have recently bought the game for myself to play!...and I'm about to face the Keeper. I don't know whether I should be excited or worried. Surely he's better than Laura...right? :/

On that note, a huge _thank you_ to every reviewer, follower, and favorite! Your support keeps me motivated, and I am grateful for every email I receive for this story. :)

Enjoy!

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within whatsoever (unfortunately). However, any OCs or scenes not seen in the game are my creations.**_

* * *

**Chapter IV:**

**Disoriented**

"'_Reality' is the only word in the English language that should always be used in quotes." -Unknown_

* * *

Some time had passed—a decent break in conversation after Cassandra had spoken her piece of the tale—when a pressing question dawned on Sebastian. He asked, "What happened after the ambulance crashed?" He glanced at Cassandra. "You were awake sooner than I was."

Cassandra shrugged, consequently raising Sebastian's right arm up and down with the movement. "Not much to tell, really. I woke up with you still knocked out beside me and a fire flickering in the windshield. Everyone else was gone," she said, brow furrowed, as if her own words baffled her. "I was still dazed when I hauled you out, so there are some holes in my memory. I doubt anything significant occurred, though."

Sebastian gave a single nod, decidedly dodging around the subject after Cassandra's last statement. Although nothing significant happened to _Cassandra_ during his unconsciousness, he could not truthfully declare the same. Of course, he had no solid proof that his experience in the irrational hospital and his exchange with the nurse residing there had been a _real_ event; that is, every second he had undergone in that place could have simply been a disturbing dream. Cassandra had supposedly undergone similar trials after her encounter with the cloaked man—an ominous, tangible nightmare. Still, despite his reasoning, he could not erase the alternate world from his mind; he could not admit that the sights and conversations and _pain_ had been a figment of his imagination.

_I'll be waiting._ The nurse had told him that. She obviously expected him to return to the hospital, whether sooner or later. The place _had_ to be real, and there _had_ to be a route back.

That is, if he was desperate enough to revisit after his first encounter.

The debating thought faded once Sebastian noticed a shift in the scenery. The trees became sparse, parting abruptly to the left and right and revealing the yawning mouth of a cave. The bright glow of Sebastian's and Cassandra's lanterns struck the marred rock and attempted to pierce the shadows inhabiting the tunnel—the latter service, however, met with little success.

Cassandra exhaled audibly. "I knew Krimson City had a decent thicket along its southern vicinity, but I certainly don't remember it being a mountainous region," she remarked, gazing up at the tower of stone above the cavern's entrance.

"That's because it's not," Sebastian countered, joining her observation. He was not eager to journey into the fissure; and, if he had allowed paranoia to persuade his mind, he might have feared that the cave would collapse as soon as he and Cassandra passed the threshold (though, considering the operation of this twisted world, Sebastian would not be surprised if the notion proved true). But, he and Cassandra had few options—especially when a distant voice funneled through the tunnel, bouncing off the rocks and echoing in his ears.

"Voices, voices, voices…"

Sebastian and Cassandra stared at each other. _Let's go._

They entered the dank cave, maneuvering around fallen slabs of rock and loose pebbles. The mumbles grew louder, encouraging Sebastian and Cassandra to press forward into the impeding darkness. Eventually, their lanterns illuminated a pale figure shuffling back and forth across the tunnel's width. Sebastian did not recognize the stranger until they drew closer and he caught a glimpse of the opposing male's scrunched features. He was the young man accompanying the doctor—Leslie was what they called him, right?

Sebastian was suddenly anxious to reach Leslie, his pace quickening despite his aching leg; however, a faint glint in the air brought him to a jarring halt, his hand gripping Cassandra's shoulder to prevent her from travelling further as well.

As if to confirm Sebastian's suspicions, Leslie relayed frantically, "Hurts, hurts…"

Sebastian's eyes followed the thin line that stretched across their path, the left end attached to a rigged device. A trip wire.

"Whoa…" Sebastian murmured, slowly lifting his gaze to stare at Leslie. "Were you warning us about this?"

"Hurts, hurts!" Leslie emphasized, pressing the heels of his palms to his temples.

Cassandra shifted. "He's right. That is a powerful explosive. The thing would blow you in half," she breathed. She glanced at Sebastian, incredulity creasing her features. "I'm surprised he didn't spring it."

"Kid's smart," he agreed. Then, addressing Leslie again, he spoke, "You're Leslie, right? I'm a police officer, and so is my partner. Maybe we should help you."

Leslie lowered his hands, wringing them furiously. He never met Sebastian's or Cassandra's gaze. "Should help you," he repeated vaguely, shifting nervously.

Sebastian mumbled a curse. "How are we going to get you to a hospital?"

Cassandra huffed. "I doubt there is a hospital nearby. He's just going to have to tag along until we can get him somewhere safe."

"Safe, safe…" Leslie parroted. Then, panic blossoming, he said with increasing volume, "Hospital. Hospital. Hospital. _Hospital_. _Hospital!_"

Leslie waddled into the darkness, his ghostly figure drifting away.

Cassandra whispered her own expletive. "Leslie, wait!" Her beckoning was fruitless, though, for no response—in words or in reappearance—answered her. She shook her head. "What was that all about?"

"No idea," Sebastian replied.

She sighed. "Well, let's go after him then. Can't let him wander alone out here."

They both slipped cautiously under the trip wire, keeping their heads bowed and, judging by Cassandra's distracted gaze directed over Sebastian's shoulder, the redheaded detective remained wary of the explosive attached to the wall. They passed unharmed, and they wasted no time whatsoever in placing distance between them and the trap.

The cave came to a quick end after they departed the trip wire, and the foreboding forest greeted them as soon as they stepped over the rocky threshold. Both Sebastian and Cassandra scanned the expansive area before them; however, surprisingly, Leslie was nowhere to be found.

"So, not only is he smart, he's also fast," Cassandra noted dryly.

Sebastian shook his head indignantly. "He couldn't have gotten far," he retorted, ascending the mild slope and following the faint path worn into the tall grass. Cassandra's crunching footsteps accompanied his own as she trailed behind him.

A poorly constructed fence rose from the ground on their left, following the makeshift path faithfully. On the right sat a broken, rotting carriage housing no signs that it had been disturbed lately; however, the motionless body strewn across the grass a few feet in front of it spoke otherwise. Sebastian may have been tempted to approach the body, but the mass of crows that picked at its flesh informed Sebastian that the individual was long deceased and probably held no clues—none that the crows had not already torn apart.

A squat, stand-alone building appearing in the near distance, a hanging, swaying lamp illuminating its covered porch. Sebastian sidled toward the wooden structure, noting the dark blood messily decorating its door; however, there was an off-setting factor about the gruesome splatter, and Sebastian could have sworn that the crimson substance formed a lighthouse, shafts of light emitting from its peak.

"Beacon Mental Hospital," Cassandra suddenly muttered, earning Sebastian's attention as he twisted his torso to glance back at her. She continued, explaining, "Don't you recognize it? I remember seeing that exact symbol in the courtyard—the statue in the center. But what significance would that hold here?"

Sebastian swiveled forward again. "It's where this madness started, isn't it?" he asked, proceeding toward the door and reaching for the handle.

"Even so, I wouldn't consider it a coincidence—or _safe_, for that matter."

Sebastian did not argue her point (silently, he agreed); but he did not halt his progress, shoving open the door and garnering a lonely squeal from the hinges. Immediately, the single room beyond distorted, the air seemingly solidifying into a familiar figure: the nurse from the abnormal hospital. She strode forward, entering the blindingly bright mirror at the other end of the room and disappearing from view.

_Crack!_

Sebastian was startled from his reverie when the door slammed shut, barring him inside the small space.

"Sebastian!" Cassandra called from the outside, the handle rattling but refusing to budge. "Sebastian?"

"I'm all right," he answered her concerned shouts. A part of his mind urged him to move toward the door and reopen it; however, another part—a purely curious part—was transfixed to the mirror as it shattered, soft music filling the air and a bright beam shining through the ugly cracks. His feet sought the mirror, and he felt himself drawing closer to the broken glass.

"I can't open the door. Sebastian?"

He clearly remembered hearing Cassandra, but his brain refused to obey. First, he had to investigate. He saw the nurse depart the room through this strange portal; surely he could mimic the action.

"_Sebastian!_"

He woke up on an uncomfortable mattress, the space he was occupying dreary and dark.

"What the…?" he mumbled, searching the area wildly. This was his room—his cell at the hospital. "Back here again? By a _mirror_? I must be losing it."

He had returned to the hospital through a mirror in an abandoned building; and, worse, he had left Cassandra stranded while he himself had no sure way of escaping from this secondary world.

Sebastian ran a hand down his face, scrubbing at the scruff along his jaw. He had wanted to revisit the hospital, if only to solidify the reality of the place; now, it seemed that his wish was granted—though, he would not necessarily label himself as _happy_.

Slipping off the worn mattress, Sebastian grudgingly scanned the familiar room, the scene unaltered from his last visit. He spared a glance at the desk beside him; the newspapers were gone, replaced with blank sheets of paper held in place by a pen. He may have considered the minor change odd, but after the recent events he had experienced, he shrugged at the detail and shifted his attention to the open door. His feet involuntarily guided him into the hall, his right leg interrupting his smooth gait. Even in this strange, seemingly imaginary place, his injuries still affected him—they still _existed_. Perhaps that meant this was not a dream; that he was awake and, in a sense, sane.

Sebastian huffed to himself. _If that's true, then that means the other place was a bad dream—and I don't particularly believe that._

The lobby became his next destination. With a brief examination, Sebastian realized that the entirety of the waiting room remained unchanged as well, every piece occupying its respective space. Truly, the only difference Sebastian could detect was the stack of newspapers occupying their designated rack. Upon closer inspection, Sebastian realized that the printed articles were past news, perhaps a week younger than the previous papers he had skimmed here: _'SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE. Victims Had Surgery Performed On Them.'_ What connection did an old report about a supposed serial killer have with this place? Were these newspapers even relevant in this twisted world?

The grandfather clock chimed, urging Sebastian to turn his back to the newspaper's stand; and, as soon as his eyes landed on the billboard directly across from him, his feet were moving forward in eager, faltering strides. Once he reached the board, he snatched the flyer hanging subtly from the cork.

_MISSING: Leslie Withers_

_Psychiatric patient Leslie Withers disappeared from a locked room at Beacon Mental Hospital. _

A 'missing' poster? For the poor kid from Beacon Mental Hospital? Had he been lost for quite some time, only now reappearing in this strange place? But how, and why? He was in the ambulance with everyone else, departing the very place he had supposedly escaped from! The flyer made no sense.

Hinges groaned and, from the corner of his eye, Sebastian saw the nurse emerge from a door behind the reception desk. "Whatever is the matter?" she asked nonchalantly as she approached the counter. She gestured toward a clipboard. "Would you care to sign in?"

Sebastian walked toward the desk, crumpling Leslie's 'missing person' poster and shoving it into his pants' pocket—he would keep his questions about the newspapers and the billboard for a later date. First, he must speak to the nurse. Despite their previous, unsettling meeting, Sebastian knew she was his only guidance in this hospital—though, whether her answers would be straightforward or evasive was a different consideration.

He leaned against the counter, staring at the nurse incredulously before shifting his gaze toward the iron-bar door. He could clearly see the chair (it had changed, Sebastian noticed, from an innocent antique chair to a sadistic wheelchair) sitting in the center of its circle of light, the IV bags standing behind it. Amazingly, the area had become even more ominous since his initial visit, its dark promises slipping through the cold bars and encroaching the lobby.

Sebastian tore his gaze away, a slow exhale leaving his lips. When had he held his breath? "Depends. Are you going to make me sit in that contraption again?" he asked, eyeing the nurse suspiciously. The aforementioned woman never flinched under his hard stare; however, her eyes never met his, even while answering his question.

"That is for you to decide," she informed, her features passive. Sebastian could not determine whether she was disappointed or indifferent to his skepticism.

He took a moment to consider his options, glancing behind him briefly as if he expected to be ambushed. The lobby was unnervingly peaceful—not even the artificial leaves of the plastic plant twitched in disturbance.

Finally, he voiced his next query: "So where's the exit?"

"First, you must sign in," she insisted.

Sebastian released a frustrated sigh before sliding the clipboard toward him. He grabbed a nearby pen and jotted down his name, not caring whether the penmanship was neat or formal.

"Thank you," the nurse said, tearing the sheet from the clipboard; and, as soon as the page was removed and stashed away, the iron door swung open, the metal clanging lightly on the adjacent wall in a jarring halt. Simultaneously, a crisp _crack_ was heard, followed by a shrill ring that made Sebastian cringe. Twisting his torso, he stared in the opposite direction, down the hall and at the intricately designed mirror at the end. A sliver of light poured through a fissure in the smoky glass, bathing the hall in its pure glow.

Sebastian faced the nurse, suddenly curious. He had entered the hospital through a mirror; therefore, he figured he would be able to depart in the same fashion. However, there was a third question plaguing his thoughts.

"What does the chair do?" he asked, jerking a nod toward the aforementioned contraption.

The nurse tilted her head. "I'm afraid that I cannot answer that," she answered. A hint of a frown dragged the corners of her lips downward.

_Of course you can't_. Sebastian pressed his palm against the counter's cool top and pushed away from the reception desk. He stood in the center of the lobby, debating—actually _debating_—upon which direction he should choose. An intense desire to _know_ what the chair and its twisted contraptions did to him—what effect they had on him—tugged him toward the barred passage; however, his clear memories of the pain he had endured initially competed with his desire for knowledge. He was hesitant, and he was wary.

Besides: why would he willingly ignore his escape route simply for curiosity?

Because he was a detective; because he wanted answers and results.

Sebastian would berate himself later—berate himself for striding through the iron-bar gate, passing the short passage with its filthy washbasin, and approaching the wheelchair with its glinting needles.

He circled the contraption, noting the gears and wires and tubes. He examined the needles attached to the wrist bands, poised to inject the forearms of its victims; and he observed—with a disgusted mask plastered on his features—the headpiece with its own dozens of needles. He had sat here—he had been punctured by these same needles; yet, he bore no marks of the shots. It was as if he imagined his former experience in the chair.

Sebastian shook his head. That was a thought he would rather not consider. He did not want this reality to be further muddled by doubt and fiction.

The distinct click of heels garnered his attention. Striding into the room with a casual, cool air, the nurse brushed past him and approached the control panel adjacent to the wheelchair. She spun around once she reached her position, her features mildly contorted with curiosity and compliance. Wordlessly, she seemed to be asking: _do you wish to try again?_

"Why can't you tell me what this thing does?" Sebastian pressed, gesturing toward the wheelchair and watching the nurse cautiously, hoping to witness some indication in the woman's stature or demeanor. She may not speak openly, but her reactions hinted at her thoughts. Unfortunately, she remained utterly passive and silent, still waiting patiently for Sebastian to finalize his decision. She was unshakeable when she was pressed about secrets.

Sebastian shook his head, retreating from the room. "I'm not going back in—not until I have my questions answered," he stated boldly, a sliver of irritation entering his tone. With a final glance at the unresponsive nurse, he spun around and returned to the lobby, his eyes locked on the mirror at the end of the corridor.

He had barely passed the reception desk when a soft rustle emitted from his right. His head snapped abruptly in the aforementioned direction, alarm visible on his features when his gaze landed on the nurse standing attentively behind the counter. She never met his eyes as she said in curt farewell, "Do see us again."

The courtesy was never repaid as Sebastian hastened his stride and left the lobby, his footsteps echoing loudly down the corridor as he approached the shining mirror. He squinted as he focused on the strip of light that broke through the glass, the action painful but mesmerizing all at once. He remembered passing the second set of doors before his world was washed in white; and, after a handful of seconds, the pure color dissolved into a rough, shadowy world, interrupted only by a dull, golden radiance.

Sebastian brought a hand to his forehead, a groan leaving his lips as reality reestablished itself in his groggy mind. His brain registered the horizontal position of his body, and he slowly raised his torso from the wooden floorboards. A quick scan of his surroundings revealed that he was still inhabiting the strange, outcast building, the enchanting mirror that once hung on its far wall missing. He huffed—even if he changed his mind, the hospital was, once again, beyond his reach.

Regaining his footing, Sebastian wandered over to the door, hoping that the entryway was unlocked. He grasped the handle and pulled it down—there was a soft click, and the door whined on its hinges as Sebastian opened the portal. He inhaled the fresh air, relieved to be free of his temporary confines; however, he noticed a significant detail that was absent from the scene before him—a detail that suddenly sharpened his senses.

Cassandra was nowhere to be seen.

He swore under his breath, fully departing the building and searching the nearby area for the redheaded detective. "Manders?" he beckoned testily, waiting for a reply that failed to arrive. He glanced up and down the worn path, finding no definite sign to Cassandra's whereabouts—all was peaceful, except for the occasional caw from the crows. He exhaled, exasperated as he muttered to himself, "Where did you go?"

He chose to proceed forward down the path, deciding that the redheaded detective would at least push onward and not backtrack. Towering rock formations and fallen boulders surrounded him on the left and right, interrupted only by the path he tread and the few, gnarled trees that rose from patches of rich earth and overgrown grass. The roots—almost purposely curved to catch the feet of trespassers—broke through the ground, combining with the chunks of rock to create a hazardous journey; and Sebastian's wounded calf did not appreciate the awkward motions Sebastian had to adopt to traverse the terrain. Sebastian paused occasionally to regain his balance and allow the burning agony gripping his nerves to ease into a dull throb once more. Perhaps Cassandra's assistance had done more wonders than he had originally inferred.

Eventually, the path widened, revealing another outpost wedged between the stone wall on the left and the dilapidated wagon on the right. The porch—similar to the last building—was illuminated with a hanging lantern; however, it also revealed a man pounding on the closed door furiously. The distracted male was ragged and stained with blood, his skin impaled with bits of wood.

_Another one like Connelly?_ Sebastian wondered, brow furrowed in thought. If this man was also infected, then Sebastian needed to slip by him; or, if he must, dispose the other male. Unfortunately, the latter seemed to be Sebastian's only option, for the building and the damaged wagon barricaded the path; and Sebastian was unable to scale the sheer stone—not with his injury.

Sebastian flicked off his lantern and reached for his handgun—but, when his hand brushed the handle of a different weapon, he reconsidered his tactic. Fingers curling around a smooth hilt, Sebastian drew his hunting knife and held it level with his line of sight. He had forgotten about the weapon, too stunned by the sudden change of events to even recall its presence at his hip.

Lifting his gaze, Sebastian studied the man still beating the wooden door to no avail. Perhaps Sebastian could do this furtively; and, if the attempt failed him, then he could still summon his gun to finish the job.

He crept forward, deliberately ignoring his aching calf and keeping his focus locked on the infected man. As Sebastian entered the perimeter of the porch's light, he could detect the more gruesome details that composed his target. Irregular bumps, cavernous cysts, a network of veins, and streaks of blood—this man was no different from Connelly. What _was_ this disease? Or was it even classified as an ailment? Sebastian was no scientist or doctor; therefore, he had no way of knowing.

The opportunity blossomed abruptly; and, in a swift movement, Sebastian found himself sinking his sharp blade into the man's skull, puncturing the temple with a sickening crunch. The opposing male became limp, a heavy weight in Sebastian's arms. Sebastian lowered the body to the ground, glancing away as he yanked his hunting knife free of its kill. It was done—the hunting knife had performed well.

Sebastian stepped over the deceased man, opening the door the aforementioned male had been attempting to tear down. The inside of the structure consisted of little more than a short, bending corridor that led to an open window. Sebastian had no option but to follow the designated path, climbing over the windowsill and continuing down the dirt trail he had formerly been trekking; however, he barely took two steps before he caught a flash of movement in the darkness. He focused on the position he had seen the blur, fighting to peer through the shadows of the night. He quickly found the figure, the humanoid shape disappearing behind the bulky rocks.

Sebastian quickened his gait, his objective now attached to the fleeing human being. Of course, he could be chasing another infected person; but, despite the chance, Sebastian knew this was his only definite lead. He has been pointlessly roaming this mountainous copse ever since his return from the hospital; he might derive some benefit if he followed the guidance of another.

He rounded the bend, briefly blinded by the orange flames that greeted him. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes, he gazed at the roaring bonfire, distantly wondering who had been maintaining the fire. Had it been the person he had seen seconds earlier? If so, where had he gone?

A low, hollow groan earned his immediate attention, and his head snapped in the direction of the noise. An arching iron gate stood a few yards away, its right door swinging loosely. Sebastian approached the gate, pressing his forearm against the cold metal and pushing the aforementioned door open. It groaned again as it swung open, and Sebastian gave it a mild glare as he passed.

The dirt he had been treading morphed into cobblestone, flecked with dried leaves, straws of hay, and broken bottles. A second, grand fire burned brightly up ahead, illuminating the collapsed ruins of a once large home. A section of the remaining walls was splattered heavily with blood; and, hobbling away from the gory scene, was an aged man, barefooted, grey-haired, and wearing baggy clothing. His skin was pallid, and his entire body seemed to shake uncontrollably.

Hesitating for a brief moment, Sebastian finally stepped forward, shifting his weight to his left foot and keeping his stance defensive. He did not completely trust this newcomer, especially with the bloody display behind him. "Hey, are you from around here?" Sebastian began, garnering the elder's attention only for a second before he stared at his feet again. "Look, I don't know where—"

"Can't go on…" the elder breathed. He stopped, lifted his head, and basked in a ray of white light. Sebastian caught a glimpse of a lighthouse in the distance before he was blinded by its far-stretching beams. He shrunk away from the shaft of radiance, cringing when his ears were suddenly filled with a high-pitched ring.

'_Did you not _hear _it? That sound—that _ringing_.'_ Cassandra had described a ringing sound—a sound that she had heard twice, nearly thrice if the ambulance could be considered a third experience. Was this the same noise that now filled his head with its terrible clamor?

Sebastian did not have much time to consider the question before a strangled cry from the elder snagged his attention. He stared in silent horror as a long, thin string of crimson spiraled around the opposing man's legs, wrapping his body rapidly in its liquid webs. It collected around his head, spinning and warping before exploding in a shower of red droplets.

"My God…" Sebastian said to himself, staring at the elder in utter shock. His body was inflicted with barbed wire, the tiny barbs digging into his skin and stretching it grotesquely across his bones and muscles.

Then, a yard away from him, another man arose, his body more mutilated, with various stitches and nails marring his uncovered torso while his skull was separated into three fragments, revealing clumps of barbed wire between the pieces.

Sebastian spat curses, ripping his handgun from its holster.

The second man—the man seemingly stuffed with barbed wire, considering the state of his head—snarled and charged down the small flight of stairs, his glowing eyes set on Sebastian. Sebastian leveled his handgun and fired, the first bullet striking the barbed man squarely on the nose, forcing him to fall backward in a pained yowl. Sebastian raised his weapon higher, sending his second bullet toward the elder who had yet to reach his compatriot's position. The bullet sank into his knee, damaging the joint beyond repair. The elder tumbled to the side without the support of his leg, his upper body landing in the flames of the bonfire. He thrashed and wailed, but Sebastian did not linger on his writhing form for long, unable to witness the suffering. Thankfully, the elder's cries died away quickly.

A glare from the corner of his eyes made him swivel away from the carnage, his eyes focusing on the lighthouse sitting amongst a nest of rocky crags in the distance. He would not deny the slight tug he felt toward the shining beacon; however, he resisted and stared at the earth instead.

_I feel like I'm being pulled just looking at it._ He spared a quick glance toward the two motionless males. _Were they drawn to it as well? Is that what changed them? The lighthouse? The ringing?_

He trudged forward, shoving his handgun into its holster. If he was feeling a slight pull, then the others were undoubtedly effected as well. Connelly had already been altered, and Cassandra had been complaining about the piercing ring, experiencing the sound on more than one occasion.

Therefore, the faster he found them, the better the chances—that is, if there was anything that could be done to reverse the curse. Connelly never regained his senses; would the others be stronger under such influences?

Despite his lame leg, Sebastian quickened his pace down the cobblestone path.

* * *

Sebastian could easily describe his experience before reaching the abandoned town with one word: _Hell_. He had fought a handful of the infected beings, spending his bullets until the last one left the barrel of his handgun and entered the skull of its victim for a killing blow; however, he had been pursued by a dozen more, chased until he reached a locked gate. The following, desperate attempt at escape had been a blur, beginning with a mad dash toward the mindless horde and ending in the murky waters of a wide river.

As he had said: Hell.

He stumbled forward, his leg searing with pain from his unrelenting escape. He did not pay much heed to the details that composed the town, merely watching for enemies and searching for a suitable building to take shelter in. He settled for the first, two-story dwelling on his left, trudging toward the partially open double doors. A sliver of light seeping through the seams cast a thin ray across the ground, as if beckoning Sebastian to enter—and Sebastian did not hesitate.

He tugged open one of the doors and entered, staggering toward the dresser that sat two yards from the entrance. He paused for a moment, sucking in a slow breath before fumbling through the contents of the drawers—which, unfortunately, consisted of little other than sparse clothing. Sebastian decided to collect the single, white shirt from the final drawer, grasping it firmly in his hand as he approached the opposite wall. He leaned his back against the rough concrete, carefully sliding down the wall into a sitting position.

Of course, he had no option to clean the laceration—not even a bottle of alcohol was available; therefore, he could only shred the shirt he had acquired and wrap it tightly around his calf. The treatment was hardly grand or overly efficient; but, as long as it halted the oozing trail of blood and provided some pressure to the area, then Sebastian would be satisfied with his makeshift bandages.

The clean shirt became bloodied tatters as Sebastian cut strips from the white fabric and bound them around his wound. Pain shot up his leg, spreading the anguish throughout his body as he proceeded with his task; however, he did not become tenderer, merely using the distress as a motivation to ensure the durability of the binding. Utilizing the final piece of cloth, Sebastian tied the knot and reclined against the wall, his clenched jaw loosening and his hand scrubbing at the stubble on his chin.

For how long Sebastian sat there, sucking in deep breaths and letting the pain seep away from his injured leg, he could not guess; however, whenever he heard the clatter from upstairs, followed by a muffled voice, he urged himself to reinstate himself into action. He rose from the floor and crept up the staircase, one hand brushing against the wall and the other gripping the handle of his gun. The upper level of the home consisted of a barren corridor with open doorways leading to various rooms—mostly bedrooms, if the chambers' setup was proof enough to the theory.

Sebastian was cautious, examining each new space he encountered; but, it was not until he reached the end of the hallway that he found any trace of suspicion. A closed door—positioned on the far left—garnered Sebastian's attention, and he sidled toward the barricaded portal with light footsteps. Once within reach, Sebastian grasped the doorknob and twisted his wrist, opening the door and pushing the wooden slab inward. Sebastian ignored the creak that emitted from the door when his eyes landed upon the white coat of another male.

Sebastian raised his gun, shifting his weight to his stronger leg. "Who's there?" he demanded, his index finger brushing the trigger in dreaded anticipation.

"No, don't shoot!" the man exclaimed, lifting his arms with his palms facing outward: _surrender_. Then, with meticulously slow movements, the man placed a hand on his chest and assured Sebastian, saying, "I'm not one of _them_. I'm a doctor—Marcelo Jimenez."

Sebastian's arms fell as his muscles released their tension; he recognized that voice and accent, along with the unmistakable laboratory coat. "You were in the ambulance before it crashed, right?" he queried, an eyebrow arched faintly.

"Yes," Marcelo acknowledged, nodding, "we're lucky to be alive."

_You don't need to tell me that._ Surviving an ambush in a nightmarish Beacon Mental Hospital and fleeing a collapsing city were remarkable feats alone; now, Sebastian was able to add living after falling off a precipice and combating a hoard of deranged, inflicted men and women. Sebastian had much more than _luck_ when these ordeals took place.

The thought served as a reminder. Sebastian eyed the doctor warily. "Have you seen anyone else pass by here? Met them, even?" Sebastian pressed. He stepped forward, three long strides covering the majority of the distance between himself and Marcelo.

Marcelo nodded fervently. "Yes! My patient, Leslie," he answered eagerly. "I saw him running up ahead, but…"

"_But?_"

Marcelo made a summoning gesture. "Come this way—quietly, mind you."

Marcelo pushed aside the fluttering curtain a foot away from him, revealing a rickety balcony. Sebastian hesitated for a moment before following after the doctor. He had yet to holster his weapon, the gun gleaming wickedly in the torchlight as it remained firmly clasped in his palm.

Once Sebastian had adopted a stance next to Marcelo, the doctor whispered hoarsely, "Have a look for yourself." He shoved a pair of binoculars into Sebastian's hands. He continued: "Those…_things_…chased me all the way into the village."

Sebastian lifted the binoculars and stared down at the landscape before them. The seemingly peaceful town became more chaotic further down the main road, more infected beings roaming the settlement with awkward gaits. Sebastian did not fail to notice the deadly weapons a handful of the infected hefted in their gory hands, nor the gruesome, mutilated design their bodies had undertaken. The sight provoked a thought—or, rather, multiple thoughts: were these people former residents of this town? Were they altered because of the lighthouse and its accompanying ring? How and why had he and Marcelo resisted the impact of the deafening noise? Would they eventually meet the same, unfortunate demise? Or were they immune?

No—no, the theory did not complete the puzzle adequately. Connelly had deteriorated rapidly, and Cassandra had been struggling with the strange noise ever since Connelly's cruiser's radio first introduce the sound; even Sebastian had felt a strong pull toward the lighthouse when he had laid eyes upon it. Therefore, immunity had no part in recent events; rather, it was like a gradual acceleration—a slow ascension. Sebastian had no desire to see the results—in him, or anyone else who had been on that ambulance.

Since the doctor had not continued his speech, Sebastian decided to add to his original statement. "Those things chased me down, too. They're all over the place, as if everyone here fell victim to…well, to whatever _this_ epidemic is," Sebastian said, lowering the binoculars and passing them back to the doctor.

Marcelo accepted the aforementioned equipment. Then, pointing to some unknown object in the distance, he explained, "Leslie went through that gate." Sebastian followed the doctor's index finger and stared at the intimidating gate that separated the town from whatever landmark that lay beyond, the thick lumber that composed the barricade sturdy.

Then, in a hesitant tone, Marcelo decided to add, "And, perhaps I should mention another who has fled to the other side before the gate closed."

These words garnered Sebastian's immediate interest, and he faced the doctor fully, his features twisted in a displeased outlook. "Who?" he demanded.

"A woman—red hair and sporting a badge, if my eyes did not deceive me."

_Cassandra. _Sebastian's mouth formed a harsh line, irritation directed toward the doctor and concern concentrated on the redheaded detective and the Beacon Hospital patient. Sebastian needed to reach the other side of the gate.

He refocused on Marcelo. "Couldn't have told me this earlier?" he questioned, voice oddly level—and Marcelo did not miss the precarious calmness, providing quick explanation to his motives.

"I apologize," he said, "but she slipped my mind. I have my own to look after, as you already know."

Sebastian could not rid himself of Marcelo's evasive manner and sharp retorts; as if the doctor regarded Sebastian as a fool. Granted, Marcelo did seem to withhold knowledge beyond Sebastian, the mere mention of the name 'Ruvik' supporting Sebastian's assumption; however, the fact did not necessarily mean that Sebastian wished to be treated as an imbecile, nor kept in the dark by compiling secrets.

Lifting his handgun and frowning at the lack of bullets (he would have to scour the town for ammunition, it would seem), Sebastian told Marcelo, "Well, if we want to reach either of them, then we're going to have to cooperate." He glanced at the pathway leading to the closed gate. "There are too many to shoot our way through."

Marcelo curled his hands around the railing and placed his weight upon it—a position Sebastian figured unwise, considering the poor state of the balcony. "One us could try to lure them away while the other gets the gate open," he suggested. He turned his head toward Sebastian. "You're the one with the gun; therefore, you should be able to manage the latter."

Sebastian was hardly thrilled about the shaky plan, but he shrugged anyway and agreed, remarking, "If you say so." Then, before the doctor could depart, Sebastian added, "Hey, doc. Your patient, Leslie—was he missing? Before this whole ordeal?"

Marcelo opened his mouth, closed it; then tried again, saying unsurely, "No, he's been at the hospital, under my exclusive care—with the exception of some…outside professionals." He paused. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Sebastian waved off the query. "Just a stupid question."

Marcelo nodded and disappeared into the house, slipping back into Sebastian's sight below the balcony. The doctor jogged forward, flaming torch in hand, and shouted at the infected: "Over here! _Here!_" Growls erupted from the streets, and multiple figures stumbled toward the torch and the unfortunate man holding the light source. "That's right, this way!"

The infected charged, the torch was abandoned, and the doctor's stark white coat easily marked Marcelo's progress as he dashed into the darkness, chased by haunting figures.

Sebastian shook his head in disbelief. "The old guy's gonna get himself killed," he mumbled. Still, he should not waste the doctor's efforts of distraction; therefore, he retraced his steps, listening to the distant growls of the inhuman beings as he proceeded toward the closed gate.

And, all the while, he inwardly questioned Marcelo Jimenez suspicious persona. Sebastian had been a detective for quite some time—he knew a guilty man when he saw one. Marcelo would have some explaining to do after they escaped this ghost town.

* * *

_**Leyshla Gisel: **_Well, now that I own the game, I can say that watching the videos was more leisurely than facing the horrors myself (still fun, though; when I'm not panicking or running out of ammunition). As for the upgrade chair, it will come back (as seen above) and it will play a bigger role in the future (though I may not reveal all of the details quite yet). Don't worry, all will be revealed in time ;) I hope you enjoyed Chapter 4!

**_EnigmaUniverse: _**I'm glad the hospital scene turned out well! Not all has been revealed about the place, but the pieces will begin to come together soon. And I agree: I do not believe anyone would be willing to sit in a chair and be jabbed with needles. Getting normal shots at the doctor's office is quite enough. :/

So Cassandra has been fitting into the story well? Good! It's never easy trying to incorporate a new character into an established storyline, because the introduced character will always make an impact that could potentially alter the entire plot (or at least a decent portion, depending on said character's role). Also, it's an added bonus that Sebastian has remained in character so far (and hopefully in the above Chapter, too). He can be tricky at times.

Also, despite my lateness of the message, I hope your holidays and New Year went well, too :) And the flu has been spreading here, too; actually, the rest of my family have just finished recovering. I hope you don't catch it!


	5. Chapter 5: Living, Breathing

**Author's Note: ** Welcome back, my dear readers! I am certainly happy to be posting Chapter 5, especially since a good part of it had originally been in Chapter 4. A huge thank you to all of the followers, favorites, and reviewers - your support is amazing and humbling! Without you, we would not be here.

Also, is anyone particularly excited for the new DLC coming out for _The Evil Within_? I may still be working on the campaign, but I am eager to see the new content - especially since it involves the ever-mysterious Julie Kidman. Should be interesting to see Ruvik's world from her perspective...

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within whatsoever. I only claim ownership to any original characters and scenes not seen in the game.**_

* * *

**Chapter V:**

**Living, Breathing**

"_I tried to resist his overtures, but he plied me with symphonies, quartettes, chamber music, and cantatas." –S. J. Perelman_

* * *

Cassandra awoke in a foreign place, her memory patchy and her head throbbing with an agonizing headache. She groaned, cupping her palm over her forehead and massaging her temples gingerly.

What had _happened_ to her? She remembered watching Sebastian enter the suspicious shack, intent upon following him and covering his back—only for the door to block her progress abruptly and harshly. Even more vaguely, she recalled twisting the doorknob and pounding on the blood-splattered wood, shouting for the veteran detective to open the door or to inform her of his predicament. He may have answered her, but her brain lost all recollection after—

After a piercing ring had funneled into her ears and ended all awareness.

Cassandra's breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed thickly. A worm of dread wriggled into her heart as she wondered hopelessly whether her period of memory loss bode good or bad—whether her actions had been productive or destructive. She feared the latter.

Her lungs finally cooperated, pushing an exhale out of her chest and through her lips. Cautiously, she switched to a sitting position—she did not want to know how she had ended up sprawled across the floorboards—and let her eyes observe the layout before her.

She was in a rather spacious room decorated with surprisingly normal furnishings. The far wall was occupied by a great fireplace, the hearth ablaze and the burning wood crackling in the intense heat. Delicate, white plates were placed orderly along the mantle and a single, slender vase sat in the center, its two pink blossoms withering and dying. The golden glow of the fire cast a long shaft of flickering light on a dining table, the oaken surface of the aforementioned table crowded with plates, glasses, silverware, napkins, and a single, lit candlestick. It was as if a family had been prepared to eat their meal, only to be interrupted before their food was served.

Cassandra blinked lazily, head swiveling toward the opposite wall on her immediate right. Two cabinets sat on either side of a closed door, the cupboards' own little doors swinging open loosely and revealing their empty, dusty shelves, as if they had been ravaged.

From her limited knowledge, Cassandra had found herself in an abandoned home.

Slowly, Cassandra rose to her feet, using a nearby chair for balance. The rotting wood groaned in protest, and one of the legs snapped from the sudden appliance of weight. Cassandra stumbled from the giveaway, but quickly found support on the cracked, dingy wall. She heaved a breath, her feet guiding her to a window to glance outside—only to find the glass pane boarded and sealed. Another surveillance of the room revealed that the other windows were in a similar state, as well as a rickety door opposite of her position.

"What in God's name happened here?" she wondered aloud, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead. When had the room become so warm?

Cassandra was tempted to open the only functional door of the space—which, if her judgment was not clouded, appeared to lead outside—when a familiar cry echoed throughout the entire house, freezing her movements and chilling her blood.

_I had been chasing Leslie._ Yes—yes! She faintly remembered hearing Leslie while she had been calling for Sebastian, the patient's voice having conquered the dawning screech. What motive drove her to leave the Sebastian in order to ensure Leslie's safety, however, was beyond her reasoning. Again, her memory failed to recover the missing details, merely registering the importance of that desperate wail.

Without much hesitation or questioning, Cassandra fled through the narrow archway adjacent to the broken, blockaded door (how much had she overlooked when she had been studying her surroundings, she later wondered). She ignored the desk and its wavering candle; the towering wardrobe; the stained mattress and its broken bedframe; the collection of paintings littering the floor—no, she focused solely on the staircase leading deeper into the ground. She flew down two flights of stairs, stopping only when she reached the base to observe the dank cellar she had entered.

The area was utterly dark, sending shivers down her spine in a spur of deliberating panic. She clasped the lantern at her hip—she silently thanked Sebastian for giving her a light source of her own—and flicked the switch, the yellow glow of the lantern chasing away the leering shadows.

Stone. Cassandra saw purely stone surrounding her, supporting the walls and ceiling and forming a rough pathway down a long hallway. Cassandra clasped her lantern and held it higher into the air, squinting as she stared down the formidable corridor. She tried not to remember her nightmare as she edged forward, instead turning her attention to the crimson light filtering through a rectangular window and highlighting a sealed doorway at the far end.

"Leslie?" she called, her soft tone bouncing harshly off the stone. No answer came, but Cassandra could have sworn she heard a whimper and a scuffle of feet. She decided to try again, raising her voice to be heard more easily. "Leslie, it's okay. It's me, the officer—"

"Run, run, run!" came the panicked response, summoning goose bumps to Cassandra's skin.

She barely had time to process the message, however, before the foretold threat materialized in the air half a foot in front of her. Hands seized her shoulders, fingernails biting through her clothes and prodding the skin underneath. In a breathless second, she saw a mass of squirming tentacles unfolding toward her face—_smelled_ the rot and decay emanating from the writhing mess. Her adrenaline took control, a sharp cry of alarm tearing through her lips as she commanded her legs to kick and her arms to wriggle free of the painful grasp. The heel of her boot came crashing down on the creature's knee, and the being crumpled on the stone pavers, screeching, reaching for her ankles. Cassandra danced away, lashing out a second time with her foot and catching the creature's grasping hand.

Then, suddenly, her monstrous attacker vanished, the air shimmering as if an invisibility cloak had been thrown over the creature. Cassandra was amazed; however, her astonishment did not keep her rooted, her instincts shoving aside her musings and telling her to run to the door—to run toward her escape. She listened, and she dashed down the length of the hallway, ripping the door open, darting inside, and shutting the portal as soon as she crossed the threshold. She pressed her back to the wood and slid to the floor, her breathing uneven and raspy and her clutch on the lantern's handle excruciating.

"What _was_ that thing?" she asked no one in particular, her voice hoarse and throat scratchy. Perhaps she was demanding Leslie to answer her; or maybe she hoped her brain would produce another astounding recollection to explain the situation. It did not matter—neither came.

Her moment of peace was unpleasantly shattered, the door behind her beginning to rattle as powerful fists beat against the solid wood.

A string of curses left her lips as she dug her heels into the stone pavement and curled her fingers around the doorframe, praying her strength could withstand the attempted break-in. But for how long? Sebastian—as far as she knew—was still locked in that shack; Joseph was supposedly dead; Julie was nowhere to be found since the ambulance crashed; and Leslie was too terrified to help her against any fiend.

In a cold realization, Cassandra understood that, if the door collapsed under the furious assault of its attacker, she would be facing this strange enemy on her own. She was alone; and, more importantly, she was Leslie's only shield against this monster.

Eyes searching the red-lit chamber with desperate fervor, Cassandra hunted for a makeshift weapon to replace her missing firearm. Broken medicine cabinets; a table occupied by empty vials; stacks of old, musty books; a worn chair; a ragged sheet hanging from the ceiling, hiding the farthest quarter of the room from view—overall, Cassandra found little leverage.

A rough jolt shoved her forward an inch, and she gritted her teeth in determination. Her advantage was slipping through her fingers (quite literally); and, if she did not act quickly, she would be the indirect reason to Leslie's and her own death. Another glance around the room revealed an empty, glinting bottle resting innocently on the floor, much too far for her to reach from her position. A shaky breath left her lips, her brain calculating how much time she had to snatch the bottle and whether the fragile glass would be effective against the rampaging monster behind the door.

A second wracking strike told her that she had little choice.

With a whispered prayer, she stood and sprinted toward the bottle, grasping its long neck in a firm grip and whipping around to defend herself against the coming enemy.

The door, soon after her departure from her post, snapped open at a disturbing speed. Nothing appeared, but Cassandra heard a disturbing squishing sound—like boots walking through fresh, thick mud. She edged backwards, gaze darting around the room in anxious anticipation. The creature was here—but _where_?

A book toppled off a particular stack two feet away from her; and, suddenly, Cassandra knew where to look—or, at least, a general direction. Taking a brave step forward, Cassandra swung the bottle with all her strength, triumph coursing through her veins when the glass shattered upon impact. The air before her shimmered, first becoming a transparent, humanoid figure then forming the monster she had encountered minutes earlier. A startled, piercing scream left the being's unseen lips, joining Leslie's terrified cry in a chilling concoction.

Cassandra did not know what hope she had been clinging to; for, ludicrously, she was disappointed that the creature did not instantly fall after the retaliation. Did she truly believe that a mere _bottle_ would defeat this horrendous monster?

Therefore, calling upon the remaining adrenaline still rushing through her veins, she shoved the injured creature, upsetting its balance and sending it tumbling onto its back. It stilled momentarily before slowly squirming in an attempt to rise again; and, even more alarming, its body was beginning to slip into invisibility once more, its appendages already vanishing.

Whatever motive drove Cassandra to her next course of action was forever unknown to her. Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps it was mindless desperation; but, either way, she could not change her swift motions. The broken and dangerously pointed end of the bottle was brutally driven into the tentacle mass that composed the creature's face, the glass fragmenting further and the flesh audibly tearing.

Silence poisoned the air, disturbed only by Cassandra's gulping inhalations and Leslie's muffled mumblings. A minute passed before Cassandra finally realized the results of her actions; and, in a mixture of relief and horror, she shuffled away from the unmoving body now splayed in the center of the chamber, foul blood pooling underneath its skull.

Her lower back touched a low surface—a long table pressed against the wall, she later realized—and she sat ungracefully on the floor, features displaying evident shock.

She _killed _it. Granted, the victim was a distorted monster who had attempted to end her life; however, the weak assurance failed to add justice to her act—not in her eyes. A moment of fear had been twisted cruelly into a murder. Her stomach churned and her heart stuttered at the thought—at the _sight_ before her.

_God, what I have done?_

For how long Cassandra sat there in unmoving shock, she did not know. She was ashamed, though, to recall her lack of attention toward Leslie, who cowered in the corner a yard away from her.

He was afraid. He was a poor, lost kid who could hardly defend himself. She, on the other hand, was a grown woman with a badge on her hip and a pledge to protect the innocent. She should not be sitting paralyzed; she should—at the very least—offer the white-haired boy a hand of friendship and protective comfort. She was a detective, trained to investigate the brutalist homicides; so where was her courage?

She sighed, scrubbing at her eyes as she finally glanced away from the motionless, deformed body. Analyzing a crime was one stance; becoming the culprit was a completely new and terrifying perspective.

Cassandra was fumbling over a multitude of words to share with Leslie when footsteps echoed from beyond the chamber. She held her breath and her gaze focused intently on the open doorway, her hands balling into fists.

_Please be friendly_, she inwardly pleaded.

Leslie must have heard the approaching steps too, for he began repeatedly mumbling, "Help me, help me, help me…" The phrase vehemently reminded Cassandra of her negligence of the petrified kid. She refrained from hanging her head in disappointment, keeping a wary watch of the door, waiting for the new arrivals.

The first entry was a balding, middle aged man dressed in a pristine doctor's attire—or, _formerly_ pristine, she should amend, for the white and grey fabric was splattered with an unknown substance (considering the dark hue, Cassandra guessed the stain to be either mud or blood). Familiarity struck her brain, and she matched the doctor's face with the same physician who had been aboard the ambulance before it crashed. Someone else had survived, after all.

The doctor's gaze switched frantically between the dead monster and Cassandra, obvious conflict shining in his dark gaze. Cassandra's heart sunk when she realized that, before she even learned the physician's name, there was already a barrier of distrust placed between them. The blockade was nearly tangible.

"Help us, _help us_." Leslie's voice rose a few levels, successfully interrupting the moment of unease. Both Cassandra and the doctor snapped their heads in Leslie's direction, the latter hurrying forward to answer the boy's pleas. Cassandra, however, found herself wondering why Leslie's phrase altered from himself to a broader spectrum. Were they all in danger? Or was another scenario playing through his mind?

"Leslie!" the doctor exclaimed once he bypassed Cassandra and saw the aforementioned patient. "Oh, thank heavens—"

Leslie tried to run, arms flailing wildly and legs swinging furiously. The doctor snared the boy in a restraining grip, wrapping his own arms around Leslie's waist.

"Doctor Jimenez is here," the doctor—Jimenez, as he had named himself—gritted, fighting to keep his staunch stance. "Settle down, please!"

Cassandra was tempted to intervene, but the presence of another person urged her to face forward again. A second, much stronger wave of relief washed over her when her gaze fell on Sebastian's disheveled form. The veteran detective—in a somewhat habitual routine—briefly scanned the room, his eyes noticeably lingering on the wall to his right and on the monster at his feet. His features were grim once he finally met Cassandra's gaze, his pace quick as he approached her and knelt down.

"What happened?" he asked, his jaw set and his stare debating. Cassandra inwardly laughed. Sebastian never changed in any situation; he was always serious and ready to delve into the deepest facts. He was purely no-nonsense.

Cassandra shifted, suddenly feeling cowardly in her prone position. "If you're asking about what happened in _here_, then I can tell you it was mostly a blur. I heard Leslie shouting, I rushed down here, and that thing attacked me." Cassandra pointed at the monster. Then, clearing her throat and lowering her tone, she said, "But if you're asking _how_ I got here, then I honestly do not know what to tell you. As crazy as it sounds, I—I woke up here, in the dining room upstairs, with no memory. I'm sorry—"

"If you're apologizing for leaving, you don't need to. I made it out fine," Sebastian promptly cut in. He stood, extending a hand toward her in proffered assistance. Déjà vu—just with reversed roles. Either way, Cassandra accepted, thankful for the support as she stabilized herself on her shaking legs. Her stomach was still twisted and she could barely spare a glance in the direction of the decaying body—could hardly look at her ugly murder. She was glad Sebastian did not mention the topic. Perhaps he knew the sensitivity of the subject; or perhaps he understood the horrid feeling that accompanied the act. He had shot Connelly—_killed_ the officer. He had more weight on her shoulders than her.

In bitter retaliation, she shoved her somber thoughts to the back of her mind, shifting the conversation to a more deliberating consideration. "What happened when you entered the shack, anyway?" she queried, brow furrowed in anxious curiosity.

Sebastian frowned. "I blacked out. Can't remember how, though," he replied, his tone rather curt. Cassandra raised a single eyebrow in suspicion; however, she let the doubt slide, repaying his retained questioning with equal treatment.

She nodded to the handle of the shotgun poking over his shoulder. "And you found a shotgun, I see," she noted, mildly surprised.

It was Sebastian's turn to quirk an eyebrow. "I found it in the town. There were several abandoned wares in those buildings." He paused, as if hesitant to press onward. Finally, he asked, "Don't you remember passing it?"

Cassandra's expression was blank, her jaw slack. "No. Nothing." She shrugged. "I just remember following Leslie's trail. Everything else is vague."

Sebastian nodded, his tight features hinting at either concern or contemplation.

"I hate to interrupt the moment, but we _should_ be going." The irritable voice belonged to Doctor Jimenez, the physician attempting to coax the still distraught Leslie calmly out of his corner.

Sebastian released a sigh, nodding. "Let's go, then." His eyes darted toward the lifeless creature on the floor. "This place is a death trap. Is there anywhere safe at all?"

"There has to be," Cassandra urged, looking sharply at Sebastian. "Surely this destruction has not extended beyond Krimson City."

Jimenez, in a disgruntled manner, waved a hand and retorted, "I think that's highly unlikely."

Cassandra eyed him warily. "And how would you know?"

As if hoping to please Cassandra's curiosity, Leslie responded to her demand himself, saying quietly, "Can't get out. Can't get _out_."

Cassandra would be lying if she said she did not feel a shiver claw up her spine. She stared, dumbfounded, at Leslie, her brain attempting to wrap around the phrase. She—she _recognized_ those words somewhere; or, rather, something quite similar. She chewed on her lip, her heart fluttering in sudden apprehension, a gnawing feeling fraying her nerves.

A faint ringing sound struck her right eardrum and seeped into her skull, earning a grimace from Cassandra. She gingerly cupped her ear, performing a quick surveillance of the room.

_Where is that coming from?_

A flurry of white fabric brushed past her, tugging her back into the present. Jimenez exited the sanctioned space with Leslie in tow, his tone obviously frustrated as he urged, "We must be going. This way, detectives."

Sebastian sighed. He seemed equally unhappy; however, his exasperation was focused on the hastily departing doctor.

Cassandra decided to speak her mind. "He rubs me the wrong way," she muttered under her breath, finally lowering her hand back to her side. Miraculously, the ringing had dispersed; however, instead of relieving her nervousness, it merely increased it. She felt uncomfortable—_unsafe_. Despite her distrust with Jimenez, she was eager to follow his footsteps and leave the red-illuminated room.

Sebastian seemed to read her mind, beginning to follow the retreating physician. "You're not the only one," he agreed. Then, pausing suddenly, he spun around to face Cassandra. Aforementioned woman was rather surprised to have Sebastian's handgun extended toward her. "Take it. Next time, you may not have as many materials to put to use."

Cassandra, though a frown shadowed her features, accepted the firearm. "Thanks," she said. She wanted to add more (what, she was unsure), but a glare from the corner of her eye drew her attention. Slipping the newly acquired handgun into her holster, she swiveled her head toward the wall to her left.

"_Jesus_," she gasped. Covering the entire left wall were glossy pictures, blurred and barely distinguishable; however, enough of the original visage remained that she could put names to the subjects of the photographs. Julie Kidman and Joseph Oda occupied the left end, blending into a montage of Sebastian and herself in the center and continuing to a collection of Jimenez and Leslie on the right side. "Did you—" Cassandra began, only to be interrupted by Sebastian.

"Yeah, I saw it. Someone's been keeping an eye on us long before all of this happened."

Cassandra released a heavy exhale, curling a hand over the back of her neck. "Are you telling me this was elaborately planned for _us_?" She huffed in dry humor. "And here I was, trying to convince myself this was all a bad dream." She eyed a particular photograph of herself, shuddering at the disturbingly blank appearance of her face—as if she retained no definite features.

This was insane. Who could have created this world? Who could have guessed that every person on the wall would be at the same place, at the _exact_ same time? Had the culprit been watching them long enough to know their patterns? Their routines? Their daily lives?

Cassandra shook her head. _Please, Lord, let this be some God forsaken nightmare. Don't let it be real._

"_Detectives!_ We have a dire situation at hand! Come quickly!"

Cassandra and Sebastian heeded Jimenez's call, the former ripping out her handgun and the latter drawing his shotgun. They jogged through the door and down the hallway—only to see a thick, stone wall blocking the way upstairs.

Jimenez whipped around at their approach. "The stairs are gone," he told them blatantly.

"We noticed," Cassandra retorted, slowing to a stop next to Leslie and holstering her weapon. The fidgeting white-haired boy was hunched over, mumbling 'can't get out' over and over again. Did he know this wall was going to appear? Did he know they were going to be trapped? He certainly seemed to be accurate in most of his predictions.

Sebastian shook his head, his grip tightening on the shotgun. "We must be collectively losing our minds," he stated—though, he did not seem confident with the assumption.

"Losing our minds," Leslie repeated, his quivering stopping. Cassandra stared at him worriedly. "Losing our minds…"

"Leslie?—"

"Losing our minds! Losing our minds! Losing our minds!—"

Three pairs of eyes landed on the patient, each one distinctly baffled and disturbed. A soft, low ringing filled the rift of silence, seizing Cassandra's mind and shooting down her spine. She pressed her lips in a tight, thin line while beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

_Can't escape. Can't get out._

"_Manders_." A firm grip on her bicep forced her to look up, meeting Sebastian's hard hazel gaze. "What's wrong?"

"I don't—" Her words died in her throat when she caught sight of the ghostly figure at the end of the hallway. She cursed, urging Sebastian to turn around and follow her gaze. Sebastian seemed to recognize the burned, cloaked man staring at the four of them with his milky-white orbs, for the veteran detective muttered a string of fiercer curses than her own. He released her arm, hoisting his shotgun in a defensive position.

Jimenez knew the menace well, for his next words included: "Oh God—no. Ruvik, it _is_ you."

The ringing spiked into a shriek. Leslie fell into a fit of cries and agonized screams; Cassandra nearly collapsed herself, her head pounding and her throat closing. She shrunk back, clutching at her ears and gritting her teeth in pain. When would it _stop_? Why would it _not_ stop?

The voices around Cassandra were muffled, the tones of Jimenez and Sebastian the only difference she could distinguish. She felt a hand on her shoulder, lingering before slipping away as an angry demand left Sebastian's lips. Cassandra opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and saw Sebastian taking a few brave steps toward the drifting figure of the cloaked menace—_Ruvik_, as Jimenez had called him.

Jimenez raised a hand, split between Leslie and the veteran detective. "No!" he said, desperation clinging to his beckoning. "Don't follow!"

But it was too late. Sebastian had placed his foot down in another long stride, sending the hallway into catastrophe. The ceiling, walls, and floor spun madly, and hues of deep crimson clouded Cassandra's vision.

At last, Cassandra released a suppressed scream as she faded into the unknown depths of madness.

* * *

Cassandra heard children laughing when she opened her eyes again, the persistent ringing muted and replaced by the jollier noises originating beyond her vision. Panting softly, she swiveled her head left and right, noting her horizontal position, the glowing marble floors beneath her body, the width of the room she resided in, and the domed ceiling above her. Baffled by her discoveries, she pushed herself onto her elbows and absorbed her surroundings more comprehendingly; and, still, the area did not fluctuate or change—it was _real_ to her knowledge. But, truly, what could she label as genuine in this unimaginable world? She has witnessed things that she has only seen in extravagant movies, meant to thrill and earn money. What she has experienced her was beyond any visuals in the theatre—she was plunged into a living nightmare.

Shakily, Cassandra urged herself to roll to her knees and continue into a standing position. She brushed away a few strands of her hair and gawked at the looming wall before her, with its intricate designs and its massive, grand painting hanging in the center. Cassandra studied the painting, sidling forward cautiously to capture the details. It was a portrait of a family: A man with strikingly blonde hair and pale, stern features stood upright behind two children and a seated woman. The woman held an elegant posture, her darks eyes withholding slivers of tenderness while her eyebrows arched finely upon her forehead, as if she were amused by some unseen display. The children consisted of a boy with a strong likeness to the man—undoubtedly his father—except for his eyes, which twinkled with the same reserved delight that entranced the woman—again, probably his mother. The other child was a beautiful girl with long, dark locks that reached beyond her waist and a crimson dress that hugged her form generously. She was undoubtedly the sister to the aforementioned boy, her features mirroring her mother's with amazing accuracy.

"A family," Cassandra murmured. Her eyes flitted among the faces for a second time before she asked involuntarily, "But who's?"

A giggle. Cassandra drew a quick breath, turning on her heel and scanning the area behind her. She saw nothing but a towering archway that revealed a long, shadowed corridor. Was someone hiding in the hall?

"Hello?" she called, her hand curling around her gun (she silently thanked God that the weapon had not been taken from her again). No answer came. Cassandra had a chilling memory of her discovery of Officer Connelly sprawled across his cruiser's front seats—her first encounter with the cloaked man. She swallowed harshly, speaking again, saying, "Look, I don't want to hurt you. I just—I need some help."

She took a step toward the corridor—only for a piano to begin playing an enchanting melody.

Cassandra nearly tumbled as she spun around for a second time, facing the wall with the painting—except, there was a change. A grand piano stood before her, its black, glossy surface glinting and winking with brilliance; and, past the propped lid, Cassandra saw three familiar faces huddled around the keys: the mother and children from the painting.

"You," Cassandra breathed—though, whether the group heard her dumbfounded statement was unknown, for they never glanced her way. Slowly, Cassandra rounded around the grand piano, her grip on her gun painfully tight now. She peered around the obstructing music rack and watched curiously—and somewhat confusedly—as the mother's fingers ghosted across the keyboard, the slender appendages selecting specific keys and applying pressure with simple grace. A smile stretched her thin lips and summoned a dimple on both cheeks while her twinkling eyes focused on the blonde-haired boy sitting closely at her side.

_The son_, Cassandra recognized easily. Brow furrowing, she continued to silently admire the spectacle, studying the boy's movements as he joined his mother and claimed the keys on the opposite spectrum. He played flawlessly for his supposedly young age—skillful like his mother and acquiring an interesting sound: high-pitched and sharp, accompanied by softer, sweeter tones that could only be described as a lullaby. Eventually, the mother removed her hands from the keyboard and allowed her son full control, shifting away from the young child and sharing a delighted look with the girl standing slightly to her left.

_And the daughter_, Cassandra added mentally, transferring her gaze to the aforementioned girl. She donned the same appearance as her visage in the painting: dark hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back like a silk tapestry, and a red dress that complimented her slender form and porcelain skin. If Cassandra allowed herself to slip into jealously, then she would have been ashamed by her own disheveled clothes, drawn features, and messy red hair.

A cacophonous sound erupted from the piano, and Cassandra snapped her head toward the disruption of the harmonious melody. The boy had slammed his hands down onto the keys, his head bowed and his blonde hair masking his features. A quick, questioning glance at the mother revealed her progressively dawning disapproval; however, she never faced her son, merely staring beyond into an unknown void as her smile melted and her eyes dimmed. The daughter collapsed to the floor, her knees folded beneath her and her upper body curled around the end of the bench, her hands clinging to the edge in a white-knuckle grip.

Cassandra edged backwards, heart thudding rampantly in her chest. A distinct, wet _drip_ echoed in the room, bounding off the walls and surrounding her completely. She searched the chamber desperately, eyes wide and wild as she pursued the singular drop of liquid.

Then, she saw the thin lines of white, black, green, and red oozing down the wall behind the troubled group. Cassandra followed the trails, her breathing stilling for a moment when the glistening lines ended at the painting. The colors that had composed the father's and the mother's features were melted, the results providing stretched, ghostly faces and a horrible mixture of creamy skin and deep shadows.

Goose bumps spread over Cassandra's body as she turned away from the ruined faces of the parents and focused on the daughter. The canvas was torn in two places: a considerably large gap across her eyes and a second, slender slice over her throat. Distraught, broken, devastated—three members of the family were eliminated from the portrait, leaving a sole boy standing tall and stoic. The gleam of joy was gone, cold indifference readily taking its place.

Cassandra blinked, surprise mingling with her confusion and fear. Cold indifference—she _knew_ that stare. She remembered meeting that gaze, through the haze of water droplets and underneath the light shadow of a shallow, tattered hood. Calculating, debating, wondering—she felt tangibly pinned beneath the inflectionless orbs, unable to turn away, or even close her eyes and shut herself out from the haunting force.

Suddenly, the music resumed, rising in a sad, dreary tune. Cassandra shuffled backwards farther, the corridor beckoning to her as she watched, numb and astounded, as the boy at the piano moved his hands across the keys and carefully straightened his posture. He seemed oblivious to his unmoving mother and his hunched sister.

"You should not have come here."

The boy never opened his mouth, but the voice came from his direction. Even if Cassandra had missed a subtle movement of the lips, she doubted the deep monotone came from a child as young as the boy before her. The voice held age—_experience_—with a biting edge that cut through the air like sharp steel. No, those words came from another mouth—someone Cassandra could not see.

A shiver ran down her spine and spread to her limbs, seeping into her bones and tingling through her nerves. Exhaling slowly, she said unsurely, "I didn't have a choice."

Why she chose to respond was beyond her sane mind, but the answer tumbled past her lips anyway.

A heartless chuckle thundered from behind the grand piano and boomed throughout the entirety of the space. Pure instinct urged Cassandra to draw her handgun, and she swept the gunpoint around the perimeter of the room.

"Too bad," the bodiless voice intoned.

Adrenaline rushed through her body, and she had to force her breathing to be steady. "Where are you?" she asked. "Who are you?"

The boy at the piano began to slow his hands, the keys become more spaced and deliberate. Cassandra locked her eyes on his arm as the appendage reached to the far, right side of the keyboard.

"That's not what you asked before."

The boy lingered on the last key, his body rigid. Cassandra understood his uneasy posture, for she was enduring the same pain. "What are you?" she involuntarily muttered, arms wavering and grip slackening on her gun briefly in fearful anticipation.

A hum wove into the utterly still air. "Perhaps you should ask yourself that question."

Then the chaos came, and it pounced hungrily on Cassandra in a flurry of anger and vengefulness. The boy pressed down on the final key; however, instead of a high, harmonious sound, Cassandra heard a shrill ring that punctured the room's atmosphere—like a needle popping an inflated balloon. A surprised cry escaped Cassandra's lips, and she wrapped her arms around her head, the throb beneath her skull unbearable. Her gun nearly fumbled from her hand, but she managed to reestablish her deadly grasp before it could tumble to the floor. She needed to shoot something—she needed to put an end to whatever was making that forsaken _noise_.

The world trembled, and a sudden increase in temperature caused her panic to swell tremendously. Prying her eyes open—oh, how she would rather keep them closed, for they seemed to block the clamor that roared around her—she was stunned to see a glowing, red and orange fire razing the wall before her, swallowing the decorative designs and eating away at the canvas of the painting.

_Move_.

It was more of a command than an instinctual urgency, but Cassandra did not deny the inward voice that jabbed at her brain. If she stayed, she burned.

Therefore, inhaling a smoke-laden breath, she turned her back to the raving inferno and fled toward the corridor. Her boots struck the marble sharply, rattling her shins and knees; and the close proximity of the corridor's walls was enough to spark some claustrophobia. She pushed through her mild discomforts, though, the fire behind her enough motivation to keep her going. She has survived thus far; she was not ready to falter yet.

A set of mahogany doors signified the end of the corridor, giving Cassandra a sense of relief and freedom before she even laid hands upon the smooth wood. She pressed her body's weight against the right-side door, losing her footing when the passageway opened easily for her. She rolled across unforgiving concrete a short distance, her forearms and hips landing in unknown puddles when she came to a stop. She grimaced, pushing her body halfway off the ground—only to sprawl across the floor again when a plume of fire unfurled over her head. Blazing heat radiated from the flames and warmed her back, daring to touch her skin if she shifted even slightly.

Then, the inferno died, its orange flames fading away abruptly with a loud _slam_ and _crack_. Cassandra swiveled her head minutely toward the mahogany doors, eyes wide in disbelief as she stared at their sealed state. She exhaled, carefully lifting herself from the concrete floor and regaining her feet. Liquid raced down her arms and soaked through her pants, and she glanced down at herself, stomach churning in dreaded expectation. She was pleasantly surprised when she saw that the mysterious liquid was merely murky water. Licking her dry lips, she searched her surroundings, noting the dull plainness of the square room and the puddles of dirty water littering the ground. Damp, dim and drastically quiet—where was she _now_?

The chamber was unfurnished and untouched, the only exits available being the double doors she had used to escape the inferno, and a lone, white door that stood opposite of its mahogany partner. Cassandra studied the pure whiteness of the aforementioned door, curiosity winding around her heart and urging her feet to shuffle toward the portal. As she drew closer, she began to notice faint scrawls engraved around the doorframe—_symbols_ that struck a familiar memory in the back of her mind.

Cassandra gingerly placed her fingertips on one of the numerous symbols, her nails catching the jagged edges. "These were on those victims," she said aloud, trailing her hand to another, larger marking. "But why are they here?"

_There is a connection. The victims had been _here_._ The blood drained from her face, and a chill spiraled up her spine, tickling the nape of her neck. If the victims _had_ been here before being unceremoniously dumped throughout Krimson City, then what did fate have in store for Cassandra and her fellow detectives? Clearly, she remembered the photographs covering the wall in the cellar; the evidence that they—herself, Sebastian, Joseph, Julie, Jimenez, and Leslie—had been under surveillance for quite some time. They had been designated as targets, blind to the threat that had been close enough to capture those photographs.

But for how long, and for what reason?

Before the burning question could be answered, the white door swung open, its hinges disturbingly silent. Cassandra's breath caught in her throat, her chapped lips pressing into a painfully thin line. Slowly—cautiously—she peered into the next room; however, she was met with a thick blanket of overpowering darkness.

Cassandra swallowed, mouth dry and seemingly made of cotton. "Sebastian?" she called tentatively. "Leslie? Jimenez? Kidman?"

Silence followed each name, her voice absorbed into the black void.

Cassandra reached for her holster, groping for a gun that was not there. Panicked, she glanced back toward the mahogany doors, her eyes catching the faintest glint of metal at the foot of the double doors. Cassandra rushed over to the weapon, swiping it off the concrete floors and curling her fingers around the handgun eagerly.

_Sebastian would have berated me for losing this thing so soon_, she huffed to herself, the dread and adrenaline seeping from her exhausted body.

Seizing her composure, Cassandra focused on the inky darkness that waited behind the white door's threshold. It beckoned for her, seemingly pushing at its boundaries to reach her. For a moment, while staring into that dark room, she felt like a child, fearing the shadows that plagued her bedroom whenever nighttime fell.

She sighed. She could not retreat down the corridor, for it had been scorched by flames; and besides: she did not want to encounter that family or the disembodied voice again. Therefore, her only exit was the white door and its impenetrable shadows.

Lowering her left hand to her hip, she brushed her fingertips over the handle of her lantern and flipped the switch along the bottom. The lantern burst to life, bathing her in its yellow-tinged glow. She was not completely helpless: she had her lantern to illuminate her path and a gun to defend herself with. Surely she could not have been deposited too far from the others.

_How am I randomly transported from place to place, though? First, the deranged doctor's residence (unless, of course, it was just a nightmare as I had initially assumed); second, the cottage with its haunted basement; and third, this strange place. I'm running out of explanations._ Cassandra massaged her forehead. If she had known becoming a homicide detective would entail such baffling, horrific mysteries, she would have reconsidered her career.

Cassandra trudged toward the pitch-black room, gun raised and eyes squinted in a useless attempt to combat the darkness. A cold shiver crept along her skin as she stepped over the threshold, icy fingers tugging at her clothes in desperation. She felt as if she was being watched—_studied_, like an interesting specimen in a laboratory. Perhaps she _was_ being observed; she obviously had been long before she and her team went to Beacon Mental Hospital.

Cassandra wanted to guess that she had tread a good ten feet into the room without any incidents or encounters; a blessing that was snuffed in a single heartbeat. The room rippled, rattling Cassandra's bones—right to her very core. She easily regained her balance and readily turned on her heel to retreat to the safety of the former chamber; however, the white door had slammed shut, melting into the wall and pooling on the floor in a sickening, placid puddle. She was trapped, her only option lying in the unknown darkness spread out before her.

Then her lantern's light faded, leaving her blind in that maddening, oblivious room.

Above the roar of her own blood, she could have sworn she heard laughter.

* * *

**To the Reviewers:**

**_Leyshla Gisel: _**Now we know where Cassandra disappeared to, and (somewhat) how. At least she did not voluntarily abandoned Sebastian, right?

Thank you for the review, and I hope you liked Chapter 5!

**_Nirvana14: _**Thank you! And I know, I dread that final battle. I have seen parts of it, and it does not look pretty whatsoever. :/

**_EnigmaZZ: _**Cassandra is certainly in for a world of trouble – and this Chapter was just a sample. We shall see what trials she will face soon enough… (I swear, this story is making me evil; you have been warned!) And again, I'm glad Sebastian is in-character! Maybe I am getting the hang of him :)

Also, I have been occupied with the game myself! Well, I have been trying to balance between _The Evil Within_ and _Mass Effect_, for the latter series has recently enthralled me. Hopefully, I will see the end of _TEW_ before the DLC comes out.

**_debatable-cerealkiller: _**Thank you kindly for your review; I really appreciate it! I'm glad you are enjoying both _Death by a Blade_ and _Everlasting and Neverending_, and I hope to not disappoint you on either of them! Thank you again, and I hope you liked Chapter 5!


	6. Chapter 6: Enraptured

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the game are my sole creations.**_

* * *

**Chapter VI:**

**Enraptured**

"_Is this a dagger which I see before me?" –William Shakespeare_

* * *

The air chilled, and Cassandra's lungs seemed to be coated with a layer of freezing ice. Her fingers fiddled with the lantern, flipping the switch and tapping the glass and furiously shaking the forsaken light source—nothing gained her any results. She muttered a few bitter words, squinting into the darkness in a weak attempt to peer through the black veil. Again, no progress. Not even the faint outline of another person or a piece of furniture reached her eyes; she could barely see the gun that she held aloft, despite its close proximity. She was utterly blind to her surroundings.

"Okay," she breathed, speaking aloud to soothe her frayed nerves. "Calm down, calm down. Just keep going forward."

Her feet complied, shuffling across the floor. Cassandra kept her pace slow, her breathing steady and her ears alert. Never before had her eyes seemed so _useless_—a sense she relied upon day after day failing her at the most crucial time. True, she had a weapon—only because of Sebastian's consideration—but even the handgun had limits; for, without a visible target, she would be shooting wildly, causing damage that would undoubtedly harm her more than whatever adversary she stumbled upon. So what was her defense? What was her advantage? Careful listening and wit—that was what she had, and she would stretch those tools as far as she could.

Hours seemed to pass, and Cassandra was no closer to an end. No objects stood in her path, and she never touched a single wall that would declare her boundaries. If she had to guess, she was trapped within a massive, empty chamber. But the possibility sounded ludicrous, for, before the fire had chased her away, Cassandra had been in a spacious, lavish area—an expensive mansion she had seen only a fraction of. She had seen beauty in a world that was devoid of such soft characteristics. Now, she had plunged back into an unfathomable abyss with no apparent escape.

She felt as though she was being toyed with, given a taunting sliver of hope before becoming suppressed once more. She was a pawn in a game enjoyed solely by the unmasked master player.

_What about this Ruvik character? Is he the mind behind this madness? _ Cassandra considered the possibility, recalling the cloaked menace. He had been everywhere—even at the beginning. Sebastian recognized him, hinting at the veteran detective's own experience with Ruvik; and Jimenez seemed to know the man more extensively, since he had uttered the menace's name. Yes, Ruvik had to be an important piece to the puzzle, if not the source of this unrest. He fit too perfectly to be ignored.

Maybe Jimenez would know more about the cloaked man than just a name. Cassandra made it objective to interrogate the doctor the next time she met him.

Suddenly, Cassandra's thighs bumped into a solid surface, and her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. She lowered her left hand, her palm coming into contact with a smooth surface, her thumb touching the thin edges of stacked papers. A table? Or a desk, perhaps?

With renewed curiosity, Cassandra extended her search, mapping the newfound terrain with her left hand while her opposite hand held her gun in preparation. She stumbled upon many objects—some known, some unfamiliar—but her most uplifting discovery was the shape of a lamp, with a stout body and a dusty lampshade. She gasped excitedly and exploited every inch of the lamp until she found a switch. With a slight twist, the bulb came to life, illuminating the space greatly despite its small size. Cassandra breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the desk—the newly acquired light confirmed its identity as such—allowed herself to regain her composure.

A handful of seconds passed before Cassandra assigned herself the task of scanning her now visible surroundings. She gawked when she noticed that the lamp reached every corner of the chamber, revealing a rather cramped space with sparse furnishings but thousands of sketches. She could not decipher which fact surprised her more: her ceaseless wandering in the darkness despite the room's compactness, or the drawings and diagrams that covered each wall entirely.

"My God," she murmured. She slipped her handgun into its holster, circled around the desk and approached the back wall. She was tentative, but she garnered enough courage to claim one of the posted scraps and tear it down. She stared down at a man's head, a quarter of the skull removed to reveal the brain underneath. Arrows pointed to various sections of the exposed brain, originating from one of the labels scribbled around the head.

Cassandra shuddered, the icy air slinking over her skin and drawing goose bumps. She reached for another paper and ripped it off the wall unceremoniously. The depicted diagram had the same concept of the former, accept this one had a view of the crown of the brain. A third sheet had two bold headings printed at the top with a column of writing beneath each one. The topics were the two hemispheres of the brain and a short description of the influence they held.

These overwhelming scraps were studies, researches, illustrations. Whoever used this room was obviously interested in the human brain and its functions. For what reason, though? Was the owner a scientist? A student who loved anatomy? A simply curious person? Considering the horrors Cassandra had witnessed, she could not convince herself to believe any of those guesses. This was purposeful—planned. This was far from an innocent conduct.

Cassandra lifted her head again, eyes scanning the cluttered wall. She noticed weathered scraping in the gap where she had taken the three papers down. She furrowed her brow and brushed a hand over the faint markings. Had someone drawn on the wall? Was there a reason those images were buried under research?

Determined to get answers, Cassandra let the papers she held slip through her limp fingers and flutter to the ground. She raked at the wall, tearing the white sheets down and revealing more of the crude, bare wall underneath. Paper crinkled and tore, dropping to the floor in an airy flourish. Cassandra earned a few cuts on her palms, but she ignored the minor stings as she dedicated herself to her task. Eventually, she cleared a decent area, revealing pencil scrawls on the white, peeling wallpaper. She saw the leg of a human body sketch, as well as a fraction of a bracket that was filled with medical jargon.

Cassandra stepped away, perplexed. Then, spinning on her heel, she approached the adjoining right wall and began the process again. She paid no heed to the details written on the papers, merely removing them from the wall and examining the information hidden below. The right side contained equations that extended beyond Cassandra's education (mathematics was never her strong-point).

Not sated, she strode to the left wall and repeated her scavenging. There, she discovered an odd diagram—too odd for her to identify or associate with any other image. She ripped more sheets down, but the sketch remained utterly foreign. Even the scribbled labels marked alongside the design were hardly understandable.

She wet her dry lips and stared down at her feet. Kneeling, she studied the papers scattered around her, hoping to find some data recorded amongst the gibberish. Nothing resembled the image drawn on the wall—actually, most of the papers were details concerning the human psyche. Cassandra eyed a particular document, reading the transcript curiously. A handful of words were beyond her dictionary, but she understood enough to realize that the document was a brief analysis of the range of emotions a person undergoes. Fear, love, anger, empathy, courage—it was a quick overview, but it held thoughtful insight within the three short paragraphs.

Cassandra rested her elbows on her knees, thinking, processing the clues she had uncovered. At first glance, the entire room seemed to be filled with nonsense; however, Cassandra knew there had to be more. Each wall connected, forming a coherent piece. A beginning, a middle and an end—like a novel, except fiction was replaced by scientific studies.

She stood, folding the document she found in half and slipping it into her back pocket. She returned to the desk—which, she now realized, was placed in the center of the chamber—and pored over its contents. It was relatively normal: A calendar sat in the center, revealing the entire month of October (no year, oddly enough); four, finely sharpened pencils laid adjacent to a stack of empty manila folders; an inkwell and its quill accompanied a pile of blank paper; the astoundingly bright lamp; and two books with a thick layer of dust coating their covers. Cassandra attempted to open the drawers, but each one was locked. She would have to find a key if she wanted to explore further—and, since her curiosity had been piqued, she was willing to search for that key. Besides, what else could she do? The door had melted when she had first entered (though any sign of its remains had vanished, seemingly swallowed by the former darkness). Her only choice was to exploit what was given to her.

The desk held no key; therefore, she had to scour the room. It was only then, as she hunted for her quarry, that she truly took notice to the chamber's other furnishings. A bed with neatly folded sheets and flat pillows; a dresser; and a table with an uncomfortable stool and an array of rulers, protractors, compasses, pens and pencils. It seemed incomplete. Livable, but empty and lonely—an atmosphere that could send any man or woman into insanity.

Cassandra exhaled sharply, shaking her head and ridding the troublesome thoughts. Not now—she could sympathize later, when she had escaped this chamber. She tossed the blanket and pillows and peeked under the mattress, but the bed was devoid of secrets. The table was not productive, either, unless one of the devices actually served the purpose of a key (she decidedly deemed the idea ludicrous). The dresser was last, and Cassandra busied herself, opening each drawer and thoroughly scanning the contents—or lack thereof, she should say, since each one was empty.

Cassandra cursed sourly. Where else could a key be hidden?

There was a light clatter, and Cassandra whirled around to catch a glint of metal tumbling across the ground. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for the culprit who dropped the item; however, she was the only soul present. Cautiously, she sidled toward the discarded object, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger and bringing it eye-level. It was a key—_the_ key, undoubtedly—plated in untarnished silver that flashed cunningly in the lamp's yellow light.

The offer was too kind—too easy. If Cassandra was not so eager to uncover the desk's secrets, she would have proclaimed the action a cruel ploy—mischief disguised by sweet promise. She could open the drawers and discover a deadly monster within, or another similar trap that could end her life as soon as she turned the key. But what other choice did she have? Study the records plastered on the wall? Scream for help in an empty, inescapable room? Sleep on the bed and hope for better luck when she awoke? Quite frankly, those options sounded ridiculous. She was a detective; she sought answers and solved the most difficult questions. She could not sit idly and let this opportunity slip through her fingers.

She returned to the desk, opening the top drawer with the silver key. With a soft click, the lock was released and the drawer slid out easily; however, Cassandra was disappointed to find only a slip of notepad paper within the storage space. Forehead creasing in confusion, she claimed the slip and glanced at the sweeping penmanship written neatly on the lines: _Bottom drawer—CM and LW_.

Cassandra pursed her lips, then turned her gaze to the designated drawer. She lowered to her knees and unlocked the drawer, tugging it open, noting its heavier weight. She drew a long breath before scanning the drawer's contents; and, with an uneasy exhale, she stared at the folders stashed alphabetically within the container. She blinked twice, extending a hand and brushing her fingertips over the labels, wondering absently what they stood for.

Deciding to follow the written instructions, she found the file labeled _CM_ first, pulling it out and flipping it open. Immediately, she was met by a photograph of herself, the image clear and distinct, unlike the copies in the cottage's basement.

Then it struck her: _CM—Cassandra Manders_.

Her jaw clenched as she studied every document the file enclosed. Page after page, dedicated to her. Medical records; education; KCPD history; random pieces of observation, written in the same crisp penmanship as the note—her life literally in the palm of her hand.

"How could someone _know _all of this?" she mumbled aloud, sparing a brief glance around the room to ensure she was alone. She was; and, for some reason, that sent even more tingles up her spine.

After a few more stunned moments, Cassandra finally set the file down beside her, a faint tremor shaking her hands as she focused on the rest of the collection. She read the labels again, automatically matching names to the printed initials: _JK—Julie Kidman_; _JO—Joseph Oda_; _OC—Oscar Connelly_; _SC—Sebastian Castellanos_. Of course, there were a few more, but Cassandra did not instantly recognize them: _AB; FC; LW_; _MJ_.

_LW_—that was the other file she had to retrieve. She complied, claiming the manila folder and gazing at its contents. Her eyes landed upon a familiar image of a white-haired boy with wide, terrified eyes—Leslie, Leslie Withers if the title was to be trusted. She did not linger long on the records, not keen upon delving into another's private business. The file was considerably thicker than her own, however, filled mostly with reports from Beacon Mental Hospital. He may merely be patient at Beacon, but he had certainly drawn special attention from someone—they _all_ had, for some reason or another. But who was so intrigued by such a diverse group of people? Why go through such extents? Why show _her_ this information? To frighten her? To give her hints in this cruel game?

She slammed the drawer shut, scooped the two folders into her arms and tossed aforementioned folders onto the desk's surface. She glared at them, as if they were to blame for this entire predicament; then, with an infuriated shake of her head, she lifted her gaze—only to meet the milky-white stare of the cloaked menace.

Cassandra nearly fell backwards, her right hand groping for her gun clumsily while her opposite palm grasped the edge of the desk for balance. Once she had her weapon firmly clasped in her grip, she aligned the barrel on the scarred man, heart pounding fiercely and gaze burning with a combination of fear and hate.

A moment of unnerving silence passed between them; then, the cloaked man—_Ruvik_, she corrected herself—tread forward leisurely.

"Don't think I won't shoot you," Cassandra warned, forcibly steeling her voice. The threat sounded hollow, though, for she knew she was at a disadvantage. She was alone, trapped in a room with no visible passageways; and, even with her handgun equipped, she knew the bullets would be ineffective. Clearly, she remembered how the bullets had sank into his skin and disappeared the last time she endeavored to oppose him, the projectiles leaving no trace on the scarred skin. It was as if he was an apparition—a ghost that could not feel pain, for he was already dead.

Ruvik seemed to acknowledge the same dilemma, for he said flatly, "That did not work the first time you tried." He was undaunted, his stride steady until he reached the desk. Now, only a piece of wooden furniture separated Cassandra from Ruvik, and the proximity made Cassandra's heart beat erratically.

"I'll take my chances," she retorted. Her right hand felt clammy, and she adjusted her grip on the gun. She did not want Ruvik catching her off-guard and stealing the weapon again. Then, inhaling a shuddering breath, she boldly asked, "Where I am? What is this place and why are me and my team here?"

He cocked his head to the side, feigning intrigue. "You have no idea what you're involved with here, do you?" he said. Cassandra could not discern whether he spoke the question out of wicked amusement or genuine curiosity, for his deep, monotone voice revealed nothing.

Cassandra's lips formed a thin line. "Should I?"

Ruvik flicked a finger, and Cassandra's file snapped open. Cassandra flinched, nearly pulling the trigger. "It's right in front of you."

Cassandra cautiously lowered her gaze, scanning the presented papers. It was the beginning of her KCPD documentation, composed mostly of her latter cases, some solved and others left with blank results. Cassandra had already thoroughly searched that section.

"My recent detective work. Why does that matter?" she asked, mildly impatient. "And what does that have to do with the others?"

"You're not looking close enough," Ruvik insisted. His chapped lips twitched into a slight frown. "You came too close to the truth, so they put you here—_all_ of you."

The bottom drawer of the desk flew open, earning a startled jump from Cassandra. She watched, wide-eyed, as the files soared into the air and slapped onto the desk's surface, one after the other, opening to a specific section within each folder. Cassandra edged backwards, her eyes darting over the paperwork. Sebastian's folder was opened to a summary of an interrogation; Joseph's folder revealed a recent report he composed; Julie's folder landed on a page filled with several blacked-out lines, hiding classified information; Leslie's folder described a medical treatment used a few months ago; and finally, her own folder delved deeper into her KCPD work, presenting the symbol she had seen marking several murder victims and appearing in this nightmarish realm.

Cassandra pointed at the glossy photograph. "What is this?" she demanded. She hefted her gun a bit higher, since she had lowered it in her shock—not that Ruvik paid the weapon any heed.

"A sign, a symbol, a code, a branding—it serves all purposes for them."

"Who's them? You keep referring to them—blaming _them_. You're the one who brought us here, kept tabs on us, has this symbol engraved in the wall. Shouldn't you be taking the credit?"

"I am not responsible for your trespassing," he sneered. "This, is my world, and you have no place in it. You are an anomaly, a disease. You were never welcomed."

"And we never asked to be here. Whatever we did to deserve this was unintentional," she reasoned. She inhaled slowly, composing herself, then proposed, "We will gladly leave, though. Help us to escape, and you will never see us again—simple as that."

Ruvik seemed to truly consider the option, a deliberate pause hanging in the air while his milky-white stare bore into her soul. Cassandra was hopeful, wondering if this man would be willing to extend a hand of friendship; to place his hate in a common enemy—this _them_. Perhaps she held the wrong impression of Ruvik.

But then a smirk claimed his lips, and Cassandra's gut twisted with despair. "I cannot help you escape, for there is no way out."

_Can't get away. Can't get out. Can't leave._ Cassandra cringed, her hand straying to her head. Like a chant, the phrases repeated in her mind, over and over again. They were familiar, natural, always whispering at the back of her skull.

Bare feet scuffled along the floors. Ruvik was walking, but Cassandra could barely keep track of him, for she was too preoccupied with the mantra. His inflectionless voice, however, remained coherent to her buzzing mind. "If I want you out, then I will have to dispose of you—and do not be mistaken: I have every intention of doing just that when I have reached my objective. For now, however, I have a use for you—all of you, to some extent."

Cassandra caught movement from the corner of her eye, and she whirled around, panicked, firing a bullet at the approaching cloaked menace. He vanished, fading before the bullet buried itself in his chest. Then, in a flash of white, he reappeared directly in front of her, seizing her right wrist and twisting her arm mercilessly. Two more shots rang throughout the room before the handgun slipped from Cassandra's numb fingers. She spat a curse, her rushing blood thundering in her ears and her head throbbing painfully.

A second hand gripped her chin, and Cassandra found herself inches away from a marred, ghostly face and a set of calculating eyes. "You are going to help _me_ escape."

The world became white, Ruvik and the entire room blinking out of existence. Electricity tingled down her spine and her fingers twitched uncontrollably, as if searching for an anchor to keep her stable. Her efforts were futile, though, as her mind lost its grip on reality and sent her spiraling into another realm.

* * *

Fire; thick smoke; a burning building; a field of sunflowers; a young girl in a red dress; a boy with white hair and a wobbly gait; a man fleeing from a six-armed creature; a woman with a flashlight ducking behind a counter as a gangly being loomed above her head; blood dripping from a knife; hands around her throat; a thousand voices shouting in her ears, screaming for her to _wake up_—

Cassandra gasped, waking with a start. She coughed, a sickening aftertaste clinging to her tongue and coating the back of her throat. Several seconds passed before she finally grasped her bearings and straightened her posture, absorbing her new surroundings. She was beginning to deeply despise Ruvik's unpredictable transportations.

She was seated in a chair with flat cushions, her lower back aching after sitting in that same position for so long. Frigid air cycled throughout the space, chilling everyone and everything present. Four windows behind her cast golden rays on the tiles and the crimson rug spread across the aforementioned flooring. A rectangular countertop stood in front of her, partitioning the room with an enclosed workspace.

This was the lobby from her nightmare, Cassandra remembered, her body going rigid. Slowly, she stood, an open magazine falling from her lap and colliding noisily with the tile. She grimaced, retrieving the magazine and tossing it onto the nearest side table, too entranced by her surroundings to set it down properly or politely.

The lobby had been a dilapidated, decaying mess when she had first stumbled upon it. Now, it was pristine and well-kempt, boasting with professionalism and orderliness.

Someone softly cleared their throat, and Cassandra snapped her head in the disturbance's general direction. A plump woman with rosy cheeks and auburn hair tied into a ponytail sat behind the counter, her green eyes sharp and focused. "Miss Manders?" she asked, a hollow echo to her tone. She waited patiently for an answer, red-painted lips pursed in mild annoyance.

Cassandra clenched and unclenched her hands nervously. "Yes?" she said, hesitant, confused.

"You may go in. Room 104."

"It was 183 before," she retorted instinctively—protectively. Did she even understand what she was arguing over? A part of her subconscious said yes, tapping into her mind in an effort to rejuvenate her memories; however, a defensive part of her attitude refused to accept the reality of the situation, convinced that she was merely waltzing into another nightmare.

"I'm sorry," the woman soothed, jerking Cassandra out of her conflicted thoughts. "But he had to be moved to a different room. No harm done."

Her feet moved on their own accorded, guiding her through the revolving doors with an irritated mindset. She strode down a corridor she remembered all-too-well, turning right at the first opportunity and approaching a set of elevator doors.

Cassandra furrowed her brow. An elevator had not been there before; no, there had been a door leading to a metallic room filled with rotting bodies. She had awoken in there and maneuvered around the dead, stumbling and tripping and slipping. Granted, when she had left, she had had no traces of the gore she had acquired in there, convincing her that she had merely suffered a realistic dream. Maybe she was asleep somewhere, concocting another nightmare? Considering her last memory was of her conversation with Ruvik and the terrible turn it had taken, she would not be surprised if she was unconscious and wandering in a deluded dreamland.

_But why here? What's so special about this place?_ she asked herself as stepped into the elevator and pressed the second-floor button. The ride was quiet and short, interrupted only by bland music. When the shiny, reflective doors finally parted, she was greeted by an empty hallway clogged by the stench of a sterile environment. The heels of her boots clicked on the tile, and an array of doors passed by her in a blur. She had a set destination—a mission to complete. She was determined.

She eventually slowed, and the hallway rippled, briefly alternating between a dark, desolate corridor with blood streaks on the chipped floors and a bright, clean stretch of white tiles and closed doors. She blinked, taken aback; however, her body seemed unaffected and proceeded to twist a knob and slip into a dim room. The door closed softly behind her; and, suddenly, she was sitting in a chair, her hand wrapped around another's wrinkled palm. She stared into a pair of pale blue eyes devoid of any joyous glimmer and returned the frail smile she was given. She knew that face—she had known it all her life. Why could she not place the name? Why was this person's identity difficult to recall?

Her vision fractured, interrupting the peaceful moment. Her head pounded in tune with her heartbeat. She felt a hand on her shoulder, firm and reassuring before retracting, replaced by an agonizing twist of her arm and rough skin pinching her chin. The wall to her left crumbled into dust, and she lazily glanced out the gaping hole to see Krimson City falling to pieces.

Suddenly, the grip on her hand constricted tightly, cracking the bones underneath. She cried out, her arm recoiling but the pressure never leaving her stinging hand. "Help me, help me, help me!" a pleading voice rang in her eardrums, booming and echoing and _desperate_. She did not want to listen, the burning pain consuming her clasped hand too excruciating to ignore.

"I can't help you!" she retaliated, a sob nearly escaping her lips.

Fingers curled around her shoulders, supportive and encouraging. "That's what detectives are for, Cassandra." It was Sebastian's words, but not his voice—not even close to resembling the veteran detective. It was a fake behind her—a lie. She was imagining this. _Ruvik_ was putting this into her head.

"_Enough!_" she roared, standing, sending the chair she had been seated upon screeching backwards. Her hand was released, and she cradled it to her chest, stumbling clumsily toward the door. Her uninjured palm twisted the knob sharply and jerkily, but the door refused to budge. She was trapped.

She kicked the door, earning only a resounding _thump_ in response when her boot connected. She was frustrated, frightened, exhausted and, above all else, eager to detach herself from the rampaging madness that raged behind her. She wanted to leave and never return. Why could she not have that singular wish?

"I don't know what you want," she stated, letting her forehead touch the wood of the door. She exhaled shakily. "I can't do anything for you."

A lingering pressure alighted on her shoulder, and she leaned away from the feather-light touch. She hated it. She knew it was not real—knew it was not genuine. "Help him," was the reverberating response. The two words seemed to be spoken by a dozen voices, all vying for attention.

Cassandra cringed. "Who? Who could I possibly help?"

Someone screamed. Paperwork fell around her, like snowflakes during an especially cold winter in Krimson City. She stared at them, rubbing at her eyes to clear her broken vision.

_LW—Leslie Withers._

Then the floor gave away, and Krimson City collapsed on top of her.

* * *

Ruvik replaced the folders in the bottom drawer, securing the lock before melting the key. Drops of glistening silver dribbled between his fingers and puddled on the floor, snatching the lamp's bright light and reflecting its generous rays. Ruvik admired the display momentarily; then, slowly curling his fingers into a tight fist, he watched the glass bulb in the lamp explode into a thousand tiny shards, raining down on the desk, the floor and the motionless, redheaded detective sprawled on the ground. The room plunged into darkness; however, no corner was too shadowed for him. He saw every detail that composed the room—recalled the bittersweet memories that took place in that small space. He absorbed it all as he paced the chamber's length with casual indifference, his tattered cloak shifting with every step.

He saw his work strewn on the floor, carelessly ripped apart in the detective's haste to reveal the wall underneath. He studied the uncovered fraction of the back wall, recalling the section and easily picturing the image without removing a single sheet of paper from the damaged wallpaper. He held admiration toward his work; the countless hours he poured into his theories. He had had too much time to manage when his father sent him down here, and he had not been a wasteful child with aimless quarries. A vision had been formulated in his mind, and he had diligently built toward that goal. It had only been a matter of time before he had reached the peak of his success—only a matter of time before deception had slapped him across the cheek, stealing his glory.

Ruvik's hard, laborious work had been credited to Marcelo Jimenez, who had done little more than uphold a baseless friendship with Ruvik—a traitor. Of course, there had been signs that not all was well with the partnership; but Ruvik had ignored those hints until he lost entire control of the situation. In truth, he held indirect blame, for he should have detected the betrayal. However, that factor was hardly enough to quell his fury. He still desired revenge. He wanted Jimenez to suffer the consequences.

With a wave of his hand, the crumpled and torn pages rose from the ground and reattached themselves to the wall. Each one returned to its respective place, the damage dealt mended with the twitch of a finger. Ruvik swept his gaze across the room, ensuring that the forlorn space had been delivered back into its former state. Satisfied with the results, he clasped his hands together, leaving an air pocket between his palms—as if he had captured a creature and he was attempting not to crush it. In a flash, the room disappeared, replaced by a fresh setting. Cots and gurneys were dispersed randomly about the new area, some sectioned off by curtains while others were left exposed. Medicine cabinets brimming with dated supplies lined the left wall, and boarded windows dominated the back of the altered space. No trace of his original setup remained.

His hands drifted to his sides, and his bare, burnt feet led him to the unconscious redheaded detective. He knelt, left elbow perched on his knee while his right hand grasped her chin, turning her head in various directions, inspecting for any visible abnormalities. A thrumming pulse could be felt beneath his ring finger—she was, at the very least, alive. That factor alone was suitable for his needs.

He retracted his hand and stood. With a few bends of his pliable laws of reality, he managed to deposit the detective onto a nearby cot without much strain or stress.

Of course, Ruvik had no personal interest in Cassandra Manders; nothing beyond a few intriguing factors from the countless memories and knowledge that swirled through her mind when she first entered the system—entered _his_ domain. The same applied to every man and woman that had come into contact with the system. He had seen numerous lives come and go—lives that he had solely ended. Few had ever held his interest for long; and, from that small number, only a fraction were useful—_compatible_.

Leslie Withers had been a part of that rare fraction. The boy had some wisdom buried deep within his mind; however, it had been suppressed for many years, unable to bypass the boundaries that kept its reach in check, limiting it to essential common sense—common sense that miraculously preserved his life and guided him safely out of Ruvik's world. The accomplishment was promising—_exciting_ if Ruvik allowed his wishes to overcome his logic. If Leslie could leave Ruvik's mind, then perhaps the boy would have enough strength carry others with him. He could support the added pressure and lead more minds to the real, breathing world.

Maybe that convoy could be Ruvik.

Ever since Leslie's initial escape, Ruvik had tested the notion, pieced together the strategy. Of course, Leslie's return was not a guarantee; rather, it was a variable, the ultimate outcome depending upon the foolishness of others. Somehow, Ruvik knew that Jimenez would be the reckless man to send Leslie back into the system; although, the accompanying presence of the deceiving doctor was a grand surprise. Ruvik nearly laughed when he detected Jimenez's mind conjoined with his own—an idiot, the man was.

Then a handful of other minds joined the fray, adding to the complexity to Ruvik's original mission. The detectives were heroic, determined and cunning; however, their positive traits were muted by their weaknesses—sensitive points Ruvik could exploit to propel himself further along his destined path. They would all lead Leslie directly to him, whether they were aware of their actions or not.

Hence, Cassandra Manders came into play. He tapped into her determination and twisted her justifiable efforts, repurposing the traits to suit his plans. She fell easily to his overtures; therefore, he could influence her at any moment. She could locate Leslie and protect him, and Ruvik could easily set a path for her to follow—to guide the boy directly to him.

But she needed outside help—assistance she could trust undeniably, someone capable of fending off any extraordinary creatures that roamed the corridors of Ruvik's mind. Ruvik could not control them all; there were too many, and several of his creations were too powerful to be instructed directly. They were the monsters of his being; his fear, anger, revenge and hatred mingled into a variety of ruthless creatures that fed off the spiteful emotions. If Ruvik's hand alone could not quell the beasts, then he would contort the will of others to do his bidding instead.

Who else other than the rest of the detectives?

Sebastian Castellanos was a man withholding great respect, but sporting many blemishes after the loss of his wife and child. His partners never doubted his sound character, though; and Ruvik would not deny the effectiveness of the aged detective's stubborn will to survive. If any subject were to join the mission to escort the boy, Sebastian Castellanos would be a logical choice. But Ruvik's hold on the man slipped oftentimes; and, to Ruvik's disdain and utter interest, Sebastian tended to become momentarily lost—detached. He was forcibly pushing against the boundaries of the system, nearly absconding from this world. If Ruvik had a stronger influence on the aged detective, he would have changed his focus to Sebastian rather than Leslie. Unfortunately, Ruvik did not have the patience to wear-down Sebastian, for he had already waited too long to seek his escape and revenge. Leslie was his only option.

Joseph Oda was another man capable of adding greater chances to the mission; however, the more Ruvik toyed with Joseph's mind, the weaker the detective's defenses becomes. He crumbles under the pressure, unable to maintain his composure for too long before plunging into madness. He was too unpredictable. Ruvik had limited uses for him.

Finally, there was Julie Kidman. She persevered, braving horrors alone and with daring confidence. Her courage was rarely undermined. Ruvik wished to pull her into the tasked group; however, her loyalties lied elsewhere—beyond her detective work and her friendship with her coworkers. She held ties with the same men who had stolen Ruvik's project for their own uses and condemned Ruvik to his own mind. She was traitor, just like Jimenez. Ruvik would have to dispose of her quickly—remove her permanently from the equation. She would only rip Leslie away from his grasp, and Ruvik could not accept that outcome. Ruvik had one opportunity; he would not be deceived for a second time.

His preparations carefully reviewed, Ruvik twirled his fingers, rearranging corridors and rooms beyond the chamber he occupied. Soon, Sebastian Castellanos would find his partner, Joseph Oda; then, both men would journey onwards, plunging into the danger laid before them. Ruvik would ensure they stumbled upon this very chamber and find their third companion. From there, Ruvik could further forge his course further.

He glided toward the nearest wall, pausing briefly to calculate the position of the remaining subjects. Finding his answers, he allowed a smirk to crack his stoic features.

_Everything will come together._

Then he vanished.

* * *

**To the Reviewers:**

_**RainDancerXx: **_Thank you! That is kind of you to say, and I dearly appreciate the support you give :) Also, I'm a stickler for details; therefore, I always find myself adding more and more. And then I wonder why the word count is so long, haha... Also, I must agree: _The Assignment _certainly adds a new dynamic to TEW, and I'm excited to see where it ultimately leads! There's more to Kidman than meets the eye...

Thank you again for your review, and I hope you enjoyed Chapter 6!

* * *

**Author's Note: **And that concludes Chapter 6! So, as you have probably noticed, I changed the format of the Chapter setup, ultimately moving the Author's Note to the bottom. It seems easier and cleaner this way; hence, the change will be a permanent one.

So Ruvik earned his own point of view in the story. Now, he will not have a regular/constant appearance; but, he will occasionally have a segment integrated during the story arc. He weaves himself into my writing, someway, somehow. I just hope I captured his character correctly *rubs back of head nervously*

Thank you to all the followers, favorites and reviewers! I hope this new installment lived up to expectations and that you enjoyed reading it! Until next time, dear readers...


	7. Chapter 7: They All Fall Down

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within whatsoever. Any original characters and scenes not seen in the game are my creations.**_

* * *

**Chapter VII:**

**They All Fall Down**

"_If you're going through hell, keep going." –Winston Churchill_

* * *

Sebastian was beginning to grow accustomed to the abruptly changing scenery and the horrendous creatures that chased and tormented him. He had waded through gore—his apparel was still stained and the stench never seemed to fade—and his hands ached from the harsh recoil of his shotgun. A six-limbed woman with long, jagged fingernails and mangy black hair curtaining her features had chased him; the cloaked menace—Marcelo had called him Ruvik—had cornered him on a staircase, snapped aforementioned staircase and sent him spiraling through the air and crashing into another dreary hallway; invisible creatures had lurked in the shadows, catching him unawares every few minutes until he felled them with bullets; and finally, three rooms had been presented to him, forcing him to end whatever beings had been sprawled on their tables to collect the needed blood to leave.

The last thought placed a heavy weight on Sebastian's shoulders, and he dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the grime, sweat and flecks of blood. He was already putting bullets in men's and women's heads; now he was slaughtering defenseless people for their lifeblood? Granted, in the former case, he had been dealing with infected people who had lost their sanity and would kill him at the first opportunity; however, in the latter scenario, he had no explanation—no excuse for his actions. Simply, he pressed a button and prayed that the steel spikes would not rise from the floor and skewer him instead.

But he had to wonder: Were those people alive? Were they even real? If Sebastian had learned anything from this insane world, he knew that his surroundings often played tricks—toyed with his senses, made him believe what he saw. Perhaps his actions were not heartless murders; perhaps he had been deceived once again.

The self-reassurance failed to lift his burden.

He reloaded his shotgun, checking his stock of ammunition—it was depleting rapidly. A part of him wished he still had his handgun as a safety net if his shotgun failed him; however, he could be comforted by the fact that Cassandra had at least one solid form of defense. At least he did _something_ right.

The narrow corridor he had been following led to a door, a rectangular window imbedded into the metal giving a preview of the next space; and, as soon as Sebastian peered through the glass, he bolted through the portal. There, in the center of the room, reclining in a tub filled to the brim with a murky liquid, was Joseph.

"Joseph!" Sebastian exclaimed, rushing to his partner's side. He grimaced as he examined the tub's questionable contents. He doubted he wanted to know what it was.

A lever was beside the tub, near Joseph's head. Sebastian took a chance and grasped it with both hands, pulling it down with all of his strength. The lever complied, its gears grating as Sebastian tugged it toward him; then, reaching the end of its journey, the lever clicked into place and a sharp hiss rang in Sebastian's ears. The tub rocked forward, the cloudy liquid pouring onto the tiles and Joseph falling down with gravity.

Sebastian knelt beside his partner and helped him sit upright. "Thank God you're okay," he said, clapping Joseph lightly on the shoulder.

Joseph spluttered and coughed. After a moment, he lifted his head, eyes squinted and brow furrowed. He sighed. "I don't know what I am, but it's definitely not _okay_." He slowly turned toward the tub, his features still twisted into a perplexed expression. "You brought me here?"

Sebastian blinked, joining the confusion. "I didn't bring you here, Joseph. The last time I saw you, we were at the crime scene at Beacon Mental Hospital."

"I wasn't—" Joseph's sentence died with a wracking cough. He groaned, pressing his palm against his forehead. "Jesus. What happened? My head feels like…like—do you hear that?"

Sebastian's gut clenched at the question. Cassandra; those men in the ruins; Joseph—nearly everyone had been fazed by that strange sound. Sebastian had caught short clips of the deafening ring; however, he had not undergone the same degree of pain and duress that the others have. Was he resilient? Was he impervious to the high-pitch? If so, why only him? Why not the other people who had accompanied him here?

He shook his head. He could consider the dilemma while he was making progress. Joseph needed to put some distance between himself and this room, and Sebastian still had to find four more people in this treacherous maze.

His mind set, Sebastian stood, assisting Joseph to his feet as he ascended. "We need to get out of here," he told his partner. Once Joseph was standing and balanced, Sebastian asked, "Can you move?"

Joseph nodded lazily. "Yeah, I…" His knees buckled; and, if Sebastian had not tightened his hold on his arm, Joseph would have collapsed on the tiles.

"Steady, Joseph."

"I'm all right," Joseph assured, waving a hand. He straightened, readjusting his glasses before glancing at Sebastian. "What happened? I can't remember much after we entered Beacon and found that doctor."

Despite his urgency to resume his trek, Sebastian debriefed Joseph, skirting around details and avoiding the topic of the hospital in the mirror. He mentioned the destruction of Krimson City; the ambulance's crash; Cassandra's wellbeing; his meeting with Marcelo Jimenez; his limited knowledge concerning Leslie, the Beacon patient; the evidence that, whoever had brought them here, had been targeting them specifically; and his unpleasant run-ins with Ruvik. Joseph never interrupted, listening quietly and nodding once or twice.

When the tale had been told, Joseph sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. He said, "Seems like quite a lot has occurred. I'm sorry I couldn't be there to help."

Sebastian shook his head. "You couldn't change it. Whoever's running this madhouse clearly wants to keep us separated." He strode toward a set of double doors. "Let's get out of here fast and find the others."

"I'm with you."

Joseph had miraculously kept his handgun with him, and he drew it from its holster as he joined Sebastian. The double doors opened to reveal a desolate setting, with a row of cabinets directly in front of them, another door to their right, and a wide archway on their left. Sebastian proceeded cautiously, his forefinger hovering over the trigger of his shotgun. A brief scan of the cabinetry revealed a dozen rows of various medicines; however, when he shook a few of the bottles, he realized they were all empty.

He cursed bitterly, stepping away and venturing toward the lone door on the right. He peered through the rectangular glass and saw a cluster of lockers lining two walls. Curious, he pushed the door open and entered the compact space; and, after a quick sweep of the room, he began to pry open the aforementioned lockers. The majority of them were empty; others contained articles of clothing or faded photographs taped to the inside of the door. His grandest prize was the miniature stock of ammunition he found tucked in the corner—a prize he readily accepted and stashed away in his pockets.

Satisfied with his thorough scavenging, Sebastian left the lockers. He surveyed his surroundings, his concern spiking when he noted the disappearance of his partner. "Joseph?" he beckoned.

He was already striding toward the archway when Joseph called from somewhere beyond the threshold. "Sebastian, come quickly!"

Sebastian did not hesitate a moment longer, entering the adjoining chamber and rounding the first corner. Joseph came into view first, standing beside a prone woman and lightly pressing two fingers to her jugular. Mildly baffled, Sebastian focused on the figure lying on the cot, his gaze immediately drawn to the disheveled red hair the woman sported and the faint glimmer of a badge at her hip, paired with a holstered gun.

Joseph confirmed Sebastian's thoughts. "I found Cassandra," he said as he withdrew his hand and released a soft sigh. Sebastian approached the opposite side of the cot, glancing over Cassandra before directing his attention to Joseph.

"Is she all right?" he pressed.

Joseph shrugged and dabbed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "She has a pulse, but that's as much as I can say." His gaze drifted to the archway, his brow crinkling. "Seems odd how close we were. So much for separation."

Sebastian merely shook his head, baffled by the strange shift in strategy. Surely this placement had not been an accident—surely there was a hidden meaning, a sound reasoning. True, Sebastian wished that the rediscovery of Cassandra had been a mistake made by the creator of this nightmare; however, an inkling of doubt chastised Sebastian's hope, reminding him of the subtle guidance he had been given as he wandered the halls. Despite his many twists and turns, he had had only one option, never an alternative path to select and follow. If he had been led to Joseph and Cassandra immediately afterwards, then there had to be some cruel ploy woven into the seemingly good fortune.

He exhaled heavily through his nose, hooking his shotgun onto his back and extending a hand toward the redheaded detective. His palm had merely brushed her shoulder when Cassandra bolted upright, the back of her hand smacking audibly against Sebastian's forearm. Sebastian recoiled, taking a non-threatening step backwards and half-heartedly raising his hands in a surrendering gesture. He watched Cassandra blink rapidly, her lips twitching, as if she wished to speak but could not find the words.

Joseph seized the moment, intervening cautiously with a simple utterance: "Cass."

A multitude of expressions flashed across Cassandra's features, switching from shock to recognition to delight. Her head swiveled in Joseph's direction, and Sebastian caught half of Cassandra's smile. "Joseph?" she said slowly, as if testing the word. Joseph returned the grin with his own and nodded. He opened his mouth to add to his acknowledgement, but Cassandra was already on her feet and throwing her arms around his neck in a tight hug. Joseph swayed, blinked slowly, then relaxed and wrapped his free arm around her torso.

Sebastian breathed a sigh and allowed his taut muscles to loosen. Cassandra had only been dazed; she was all right, if her joy in seeing Joseph alive was proof enough.

A handful of seconds passed before Cassandra detached herself from Joseph, murmuring a brief apology for her abrupt actions. Then, straightening her posture and rolling her shoulders, she inquired, "Where have you been, Joseph? I thought you were still trapped in Beacon. You never came out."

Joseph frowned. "I wish I could answer you, but I honestly have no idea, either. I remember inspecting the crime scene; but, up until Sebastian found me, I have no memory."

Cassandra pursed her lips and nodded grimly. Her eyes flicked toward Sebastian and she shared a weary smile with him, too. "Sebastian," she greeted. Then, glancing over her shoulder at the cot she had been resting on moments earlier, she said, "Sorry if I lashed out at you. Bad dreams are quite common here, I'm sure you can imagine."

Sebastian huffed dryly. "No rest for the wicked."

"Isaiah 48:22," she hummed, folding her arms across her chest loosely. "Suiting."

Joseph rocked back on his heels. "Do you know how you ended up here?" he asked, jerking his head toward the cot behind her.

Sebastian had been a detective for a few years; therefore, he had built a solid foundation of experience to assist him in his daily work. He had witnessed gruesome crimes, met heartless—or, some cases, simply desperate—men and women who had committed terrible acts of violence, and discerned the guilty from the innocent. There were several occasions where his assumptions were erroneous, of course; and, as a result, he had to adjust his viewpoint in order to solve the case. At that moment, however, he held few doubts that Cassandra was suppressing a truth or two.

The redheaded detective hesitated, her lips forming a tight line with the corners dipping downward into a subtle frown. Her excitement had dissipated and her body seemed suddenly stiff. She was nervous, unsure. Sebastian's heart dropped when he realized that he recognized the predicament from a homicide investigation he had conducted a year ago. He had been interrogating a man who knew more than what he was admitting—a man that had had no hand in the murder itself, only becoming an unfortunate, unwilling connection. The man refused to reveal any more because the culprit was his nephew, and he only wanted to protect his extended family.

Sebastian clenched his jaw. If his experience was not failing him and Cassandra was obscuring a secret from him and Joseph, then he had to wonder: What could have frightened her enough to keep her silent? What reason would she have to hide anything from him and Joseph, especially in their current predicament? Had someone convinced her, threatened her? Or was she merely taking a defensive stance for her own sake?

He wanted to pry. His career taught him to seek the truth and piece together the most deliberating mysteries. He despised the title '_unsolved_,' and he wanted to ensure that that word would never come across his desk again.

But how could he accuse Cassandra? Place the blame on her indecisiveness? Her lack of immediate answer? Her unsure demeanor? He knew such forwardness would be tragic. He would only draw anger or irritation, dumping salt into an open wound. If he wanted to place any blame—start any arguments—he would have to listen first.

Cassandra drew a deep breath, turning to Sebastian as she began. "After we were separated, I found myself in a home of some sorts—a mansion, maybe, if its size was anything to go by. A few freak incidents later, I stumbled upon an office filled with a lot of research—mostly anatomy and the brain and the mind." She tapped her temple for emphasis. "I remember scouring the place and picking through the data. I guess our cloaked man decided he didn't like me snooping. Once he appeared…I don't know. It's fuzzy. Mostly patchy dreams. So how I got _here_, I have no idea, other than I was brought here involuntarily." Her forehead creased, and her eyes lowered to her right hip, where her holster and the handgun Sebastian had given her was attached. Her shoulders dropped with a slow exhale. She seemed relieved to find the weapon still on her person.

Sebastian spared Joseph a quick glance to see his partner's reaction. Joseph, pointedly ignoring the stare, adjusted his glasses again and asked warily, "Who's this 'cloaked man' you're referring to? Is he Ruvik?"

Now _Joseph_ held Sebastian's attention. Did Joseph never see Ruvik? At Beacon, the scarred man had managed to slip behind Sebastian—a position Joseph should have been guarding—and send him here. Sebastian had even caught a glimpse of Ruvik's face before a sharp pain had erupted from his left eye and blinded his vision. Even Cassandra had undergone a similar experience. Was Joseph's fate treated differently? Or did Joseph's mind blotch that memory?

Whatever the case, Cassandra did not seem as perturbed by the revelation. She only scowled, her words edged with venom as she gave Joseph a brief explanation. "As far as we know, yeah, his name's Ruvik. The doctor watching over Leslie gave us that hint."

"Marcelo Jimenez, the doctor we found," Sebastian elaborated before Joseph could question the topic. "And Leslie's his patient. Leslie Withers."

From the corner of his eye, Sebastian saw Cassandra cringe at the name. He struggled to contain the questions that swarmed his brain after witnessing the response.

"Right," she said, swallowing. "But, as for Ruvik, there's not much on him. He appears and disappears as he pleases, knows his way around this place. Maybe he has some connections with Jimenez, too." She sighed. "It's times like these I wish we had the database on hand."

"I may not have seen as much of this place as you two have," Joseph said, observing his surroundings, "but for some reason, I don't think anyone or anything living here would show up at the station." He switched his gaze between Sebastian and Cassandra. "It's like a haunted house gone terribly wrong."

Cassandra snorted lightly, letting her arms fall limply to her sides. "And more," she added.

"Either way," Sebastian intervened, "we're finding the others and getting out. With any luck, Kidman, Jimenez, and Leslie will be close by."

"You know you can count me in," Cassandra said, providing a firm nod of agreement. Joseph mirrored Cassandra, dipping his head and hefting his handgun.

Sebastian rearmed himself with his shotgun and trudged forward, Joseph and Cassandra flanking him. They passed under a second archway at the opposite end of the room, a blood-splattered door to the left and a descending staircase to the right. Sebastian opted to examine the room behind the door, easing the portal open and shuffling inside with his shotgun primed. Initially, the chamber seemed relatively peaceful aside from the ever-present aura of danger and solitude; however, Cassandra quickly dispelled the calm, gasping softly as her gaze veered to the left. Sebastian turned toward the source of her distress, a grave expression shadowing his features when he saw a man hanging from a noose by his neck.

Sebastian muttered an expletive of disbelief under his breath, bowing his head briefly in a weak form of respect for the poor soul. Then, swiftly, he scanned the room, attempting to focus on his search rather than the groan of the straining rope. Unfortunately, he found nothing useful, and Joseph and Cassandra held the same results. Without protest, they departed the room, leaving the dead man swaying from his suspended point. Sebastian never did rid himself of that haunting groan.

The staircase was next, and they all trotted down the steps wordlessly. Long shadows submerged them in darkness once they reached the bottom, encouraging Sebastian to flick on his lantern and cast some light on the cracked walls and hexagonal tiles. A short hallway expanded into an alcove with shelves lining the back wall, a handful of lockers shoved into the far left corner, and an exit to the right—an exit that was completely wired with explosives, its red lights tinting the room a mellow crimson.

Joseph came to Sebastian's side, eyeing the door. "This looks pretty sophisticated," he noted, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. "Why would they put a bomb like this here?"

Cassandra's voice echoed behind them as she remarked, "They obviously don't take lightly to strangers."

Joseph glanced over his shoulder at the redheaded detective. "Or they're trying to hide something."

Sebastian jerked his head toward the rigged door. "Do you think we can get past it?"

Returning to the door, Joseph sidled toward it and scanned it up and down a second time. He nodded in confirmation, slight unease twisting his features. "Stand back. Let me see if I can disarm it," he said. Then he began, fiddling with the explosives with cautious care, his attention centered solely on the complex disarmament before him.

Sebastian complied with his partner's wishes, edging backwards and joining Cassandra, who had decided to skim the shelves. Seconds of tense silence ticked away, interrupted only by Joseph's tinkering and Cassandra's shifting. Sebastian regarded the woman beside him, his burning questions from earlier kindling once again in the back of his mind. He was curious—or, perhaps he was more _suspicious_, since _curious_ seemed too mild—about her reaction to the question concerning her whereabouts. Was she guarding important information? Could she truly not recall the entirety of her previous situation?

After Sebastian had reentered the unworldly hospital through the shack's mirror and finished his explorations, he had returned to his senses to discover Cassandra missing. Obviously, she had advanced forward, since Marcelo had proclaimed to see her pass through the town and pursue Leslie through the gate; and, for added proof, he had met her in the cottage's basement, Leslie with her and a perished monster three feet away from her. He had not press her harshly, decidedly dancing around the subject and merely obtaining the core circumstances. He had believed her to be genuine, for he had not seen a reason for her to speak lies, especially when the previous occurrences had clearly disturbed her. So why the hesitation now? Why the doubt? What would she want to keep from him and Joseph?

He placed his weight on his right foot and examined Joseph's progress. His partner displayed no blatant signs of completion; therefore, Sebastian seized the opportunity to relieve a few of his questions—nothing accusing or heated, only sincere concern.

Before Sebastian could open his mouth, however, Cassandra spoke quietly, asking, "Do you believe he was forced to do that?"

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Who are we talking about?"

"That man upstairs," Cassandra prompted. She met Sebastian's gaze. "Do you think this place drove him mad? Mad enough to take his own life?"

Sebastian was silent for a long time, thoughtful as he considered the question. He knew there were few _right_ answers to the topic; however, he had to choose the most appropriate response, keep the disparity from his tone and view. The task was certainly not easy.

"Whatever encouraged him to do what he did is hard to judge; but it's no secret that this place is beyond insane. It may have been the compelling factor that pushed him over the edge." He paused. "Are you worried about it?"

Cassandra sighed, opening the flaps of a cardboard box and peering inside. She did not notice anything useful, if the dull glint in her brown eyes was a good hint. "In the sense that _we_ could possibly lose our minds? Yeah, I do worry. But I would like to think we're strong enough, and that we keep each other anchored when events start to get out of hand. We're continuously separated because the mastermind behind this nightmare finds that trick effective." Cassandra allowed a thin smile to pull at her lips. "He probably hates that we keep finding each other."

Sebastian nodded, but he did not wholeheartedly agree. Considering how easily he had obtained Joseph and Cassandra, he was beginning to believe the culprit _wanted_ them banded together. The thought troubled Sebastian greatly.

He scrubbed at the stubble along his jaw, mulling over his next question. Then, brushing aside his concerns, he asked simply, "Are you sure you're all right?"

Cassandra shrugged, lips twitching in an undefinable expression. "Honestly, no. This place gets stranger with every door we pass through; and encountering unimaginable monsters and a man impervious to bullets is no less frightening. But we're here now, alive. I count that as an astounding victory." She shove the box out of her way, her brow scrunching with interest. "What's this?"

Cassandra withdrew her arm; and, resting in the palm of her hand, was a steel case holding a syringe filled with a green fluid. Gingerly, Cassandra removed the syringe from its container and scrutinized the liquid in the glass tube. Sebastian arched both eyebrows, surprised. The syringe was the first medicinal product that had yet to be emptied.

"Think it's malevolent?" Cassandra inquired, regarding Sebastian curiously.

Sebastian shook his head, unsure. "Everything else I found has already been consumed. Either this was skipped over by accident, or it was purposely left behind."

"Fifty-fifty shot, then," Cassandra hummed, frowning. She replaced the syringe in its casing and reached toward the shelf again. She produced another steel object—the lid to the container. Sealing the syringe, she awkwardly slipped the container into her pocket, a quarter of it peeking out.

"You're taking those chances, Manders?" Sebastian asked, a sliver of incredulity seeping into his tone.

The query earned another shrug from the redheaded detective. "If push comes to shove and I have nothing left, yeah, I'll take my chances. It has to be worth something." She huffed lightly, crossing her arms. "Don't worry: I'm even less thrilled about the idea than you are—and that's saying something."

"Maybe you should keep the wisecracks to yourself," Sebastian deadpanned, unamused by the jibe.

"Sometimes I need to lighten the mood, Sebastian—especially in a place like this."

Conversation ended when a _beep_, followed by three clanks and a _hiss_, originated behind them. Sebastian instinctually tightened his grip on his shotgun as he spun around; however, he relaxed when he realized that Joseph had merely succeeded in disarming the explosives. His partner turned on his heel, swiping a few droplets of sweat from his face.

"It may look impressive, but there were a few mistakes," Joseph remarked, an edge of pride touching his words.

Cassandra chuckled. "Nicely done, Joseph," she commended.

All three of them proceeded through the door, mindful not to touch the explosives despite their deactivated state. A curtain blocked a clear view of the entire room; therefore, with wary steps, Sebastian skirted around the obstruction and surveyed the layout of the room. The area was empty aside from a nearby ladder leading upwards and three bathtubs sitting against the left wall.

Sebastian studied the latter objects, blinking rapidly as his vision tilted and fluctuated. For a fraction of a second, the room was bathed in crimson lighting, and he saw three unidentifiable figures occupying each tub. A shrill ring thrummed against his eardrums, and he cringed, placing a hand over his left ear.

He grunted, struggling to stay focused. "What is it with this sound?" he said aloud, swaying, almost losing his balance. "I thought it was something electronic, but—"

Sebastian's sentence was interrupted by a loud clatter a sharp cry.

He whirled around, forcibly shutting out the clamor to assess the dilemma. He caught a brief glimpse of Cassandra gripping the nearest bathtub for support while she pressed the heel of her free hand against her forehead, her handgun forgotten on the floor a couple of feet from her. Then, in a blur of motion, a force collided into him, a painful pressure closing around his throat and constricting his airways. Sebastian stumbled, dropping his shotgun and grappling with the strangling hands of—of _Joseph_.

Sebastian was taken aback to see his partner inflicted with pulsating bubbles, visible veins and a gaping cyst blossoming on his cheek. Joseph had become a mirror image of Connelly—_acted_ like Connelly, determined to end Sebastian's life. No—no, surely Joseph would not turn so easily. Surely this struggle would not have to conclude the same way it did with Connelly.

With great effort, Sebastian managed to pry Joseph's gloved hands away from his throat and push him away. He expected Joseph to come charging; or, worse, take Cassandra by surprise as she regained her senses. Joseph did neither, however, only hunching over and breathing raggedly. Sebastian rubbed at his throat, drawing his own deep intakes as he waited for Joseph to make his next move, _hoping_ that his partner would not force his hand.

Torturous seconds passed. Sebastian's muscles were painfully taut, and Cassandra was slowly rising to her feet, her eyes darting between him and Joseph worriedly. Eventually, Joseph shifted, his hands reaching for his glasses and pulling them away from his face. He straightened, and Sebastian heaved a sigh when he saw the lack of blemishes on his partner's features, aside from a thin stream of blood that trailed from his nose—but even that was removed as Joseph dragged the back of his hand across his upper lip, removing the streak of crimson.

"Joseph," Sebastian breathed, swallowing dryly. "After Connelly, I thought…" The sentence fell, for Sebastian was unable to complete the statement. If Joseph kept attacking, Sebastian might have had to reclaim his shotgun, pull the trigger. A fleeting glance at Cassandra told Sebastian she was thinking along the same lines, her gaze lowered to the ground and her lips forming a strict line.

Joseph shook his head. "I—I don't know what came over me," he muttered, coughing between breaths. "I haven't been feeling well, but—I don't know. I'm sorry. I couldn't control myself."

Cassandra retrieved her gun and shoved it into her holster. She placed a light hand on Joseph's shoulder, but Joseph shrugged the appendage off, motioning for space. Cassandra complied, but her disapproving frown spoke volumes.

Sebastian stooped down and collected his shotgun. "Look, let's just get out of here," he said, purposely chasing away the doubts and grim outlooks. He switched his gaze between Cassandra and Joseph. "Whatever's going on here is messing with our minds, and lingering too long isn't doing us any favors."

Joseph nodded, replacing his glasses. "Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly.

Cassandra remained silent.

Composure regained and concerns mostly soothed, Sebastian approached the rusty ladder, tugging on a couple rungs to ensure its stability. Satisfied with the sound results, he slung his shotgun over his shoulder and began to ascend the ladder. The ladder echoed hollowly as his shoes thumped solidly against the rickety metal; and the noise grew greater as Cassandra and Joseph accompanied him.

White light illuminated the next space, eliminating the need of Sebastian's lantern. He flicked it off once he removed himself from the ladder, examining the area warily for threats as Cassandra and Joseph emerged, respectively.

"It's strange," Cassandra spoke, disturbing the silence that coated the air. "It's so quiet. No one else seems to be here. Not that I'm objecting; but after seeing that bomb down there, I would expect some resistance."

"Doesn't make it any safer," Joseph argued.

"No, it doesn't," Cassandra amended. "That's why I'm pointing it out. After what we've seen, this seems too calm."

"Expecting an ambush?" Sebastian suggested, peering over his shoulder at the two of them as he mounted the three steps that led to higher ground.

Cassandra followed him. "It wouldn't surprise me."

"Then we'll keep our guard up."

A soft, sweet tune lilted throughout the space, reaching Sebastian's ears and immediately drawing his attention. His eyes locked on a metal door with dried blood splattered on its surface, forming a vague image of a lighthouse. Sebastian frowned, well aware that the symbol and music most likely meant that a portal to the hospital was beyond the threshold, waiting to be discovered.

He glanced at Joseph and Cassandra. The former did not seem to take notice; however, the latter was pointedly looking in his direction. Once Cassandra realized she had his attention, she darted her eyes in the direction of the bloodied door and shook her head subtly. She was warning him against the idea of entering, undoubtedly worried that a repeat of the shack accident would occur if he entered.

Sebastian would not deny that he had an urge to enter the designated room and find the hospital again. He had a thousand questions reserved for that place alone, and he was impatient to find the answers he sought. But he refrained. He had just recently gathered Joseph and Cassandra, and he had no intention of losing them too quickly—or at all, if he could oppose this distorted world and its persistent creator. If he attempted to reach the hospital and succeeded, he may return and find Joseph and Cassandra missing once more. How could he take those risks? How could he act so selfishly? How could he _explain_ to Joseph and Cassandra what he needed to do and why it needed to be done? He could not—simple as that.

He strictly ignored the beckoning music that seeped through the door's seams and strode briskly toward the double doors that stood directly before him. He placed his palms on the chipped, white wood and pushed both sides open, marveling at the generous proportions of the next room. A high ceiling; decorated, circular windows; a balcony, though partially collapsed, wrapped around the entire room, signifying an upper and lower level; a multitude of doors that branched in different directions; alabaster pillars serving as supports; and a wide expanse of checkered flooring on the first level, its openness interrupted by a handful of scattered tables and a cube-shaped tank—a tank holding a familiar woman hostage and rapidly filling with water.

Sebastian surged forward and leaned his upper body over the balcony. "Kidman!" he shouted, earning aforementioned woman's attention. She spun around and looked up at him, pressing her palms against the thick glass.

"Get me out of this thing!" she responded, panic and fury blending together.

By then, Cassandra and Joseph had already entered the scene and were staring over the balcony's railing and at Julie. Cassandra was trotting toward the collapsed section of the balcony—the easiest route to the ground floor—and Sebastian was preparing to sprint after her when Joseph halted them both.

"Wait a minute! It's another trap. Look," he informed them, jerking his head toward the setting below them. Sebastian paused; and, from the corner of his eye, he saw Cassandra heed Joseph's words and examine the scene more closely. Below, infected men and women emerged from the shadows and doorways, snarling and growling, some defenseless and others wielding glinting weapons. They all herded around the tank, their heads swiveling in every direction as if searching for an opposition. Sebastian would not be entirely surprised if they were specifically designed to fulfill that notion.

"What do we do?" Cassandra demanded. "Kidman doesn't have much time."

Joseph shook his head. "We can't barge onto the scene. It's much more elaborately—"

An alarmed cry arose from Joseph as a body rammed into his back and pitched them both over the edge of the balcony. They landed on the first floor in a heap, still for a moment before Joseph hurriedly shoved the offending body off of him.

He glanced around wildly at the surrounding enemies. "I think you'd better get down here," he stated, drawing his handgun.

Neither Sebastian nor Cassandra needed any more convincing—they were navigating down the balcony's rubble before Joseph even completed his sentence. Cassandra was faster, hurdling over the last obstruction and entering the fray, handgun raised and finger hovering over the trigger. Sebastian was not far behind, and he was descending upon the nearest group in seconds, the recoil of the shotgun painfully familiar as he felled the infected beings.

It was disturbingly easy to dull any remorse or grief for the death count when he considered the endangerment of his fellow detectives' lives. He lost himself in the gunfire and the rush of his blood and the drum of his pounding heart. He focused on Joseph, Cassandra and Julie and listened for their curt warnings or summons for assistance. He acted on instinct, automatically responding to the situation as it changed and shifted—he adapted.

The three of them cleared the floor; however, they never received a decent pause before another flood of enemies descended upon them. At some point, Joseph declared a lack of ammunition, and Cassandra hugged his side until Joseph was able to scavenge an axe from one of the dead infected. Then Cassandra used her last bullet to kill a bloated man that had almost taken Sebastian by surprise. Her handgun was then replaced by a discarded shovel, which she wielded awkwardly until the tool became familiar in her grasp.

Sebastian knocked over the last man with a point-blank shot, and he let his shoulders sag in exhaustion. For a moment, he believed that they had won the battle and they could finally free Julie from her confines.

That hope was wasted, however, when Joseph exclaimed: "Watch out! They have dynamite!"

Too late—Sebastian reacted too late. A dazzling object flew through the air and landed a few feet away from Sebastian. Sebastian barely registered the object as a bundle of dynamite before the fuse was consumed and an explosion sent him tumbling backwards.

The world became a muddy haze, and every sound seemed muffled to his ears. His hands searched for his shotgun, but he realized that the weapon had slipped from his grasp. He mumbled a slurred expletive, struggling to get to his feet while fighting his daze. Someone came to his side and hooked a hand under his elbow, assisting him. His supporter shouted an unintelligible phrase—the voice was feminine, so it had to be Cassandra next to him—and he heard the echoing response from a masculine tone—Joseph, undoubtedly. Seconds later, the shotgun's powerful shot resumed its assault.

A final tug on Sebastian's arm brought him to a standing position. A blur passed in front of him, a figure slowly coming into focus and forming Cassandra.

"You good? Sebastian?" she pressed, her brown eyes occasionally darting around the room—searching for nearing enemies, Sebastian supposed.

He nodded, brushing the hand off of his arm. "I'm fine," he assured. His vision steadied and his hearing improved—not completely healed, but stabilized enough to hold his own.

A resounding _boom_ echoed from above, and Sebastian and Cassandra watched as half-a-man fell from the balcony and smacked wetly onto the checkered tiles, a pool of blood readily encircling him.

His eyebrows soared upwards on his forehead. He turned to Joseph, who lowered the shotgun and exhaled laboriously. "You did that?"

Joseph huffed. "Lucky shot," he said. "And he dropped his stack of dynamite next to him in the process."

His attention drifted to the tank and he jogged toward the contraption. Sebastian and Cassandra were at his side soon afterwards, all three of them examining the tank and Julie floating helplessly inside. The brunette detective barely had enough air space, her head bobbing on the surface and her arms and legs struggling to keep her afloat.

"How do we open this thing?" Cassandra asked between breaths. She pounded a fist against the glass. "Bullets aren't going to break it open."

"What about the dials?" Sebastian nodded toward the peculiarity, and Joseph examined the dials closely, frowning contemplatively.

"Maybe there's another control panel around here. Match up the numbers set here with another panel."

Sebastian stepped backwards, scanning the layout of the room. His eyes locked on the pipes that protruded from the top of the tank and wrapped around the room. Those pipes were allowing the water to enter the tank; maybe they would lead to an off-switch. "Where do these pipes go?" he asked aloud.

Cassandra followed his gaze. "There," she said, pointing toward the back of the room. The beginning of tunnel system was carved into the wall, the pipes melting into its shadows. Cassandra shifted forward, prepared to chase after their hidden quarry; but Sebastian stopped her, clamping a hand on her shoulder. He did not miss the flinch that wracked her body, but he decidedly ignored it for the time being.

"I'll go. You stay with Joseph." Then he turned to his partner. "Tell me what to do."

Joseph nodded. He handed Sebastian the shotgun. "One round left," he warned.

Sebastian grimaced, but accepted the weapon gratefully anyway. Then he was racing through the yawning entry of the tunnel and darting through the inlaid passages. Prison cells spawned on his left and right, and grasping hands reached through the iron bars to stop his progress. He met some opposition from escaped inmates, but he merely barreled past them, determined to reach his goal and keep Julie alive.

He eventually stumbled upon an open cell with a ragged hole in one of its walls. Sebastian crouched down and crawled through the opening, gritting his teeth as he accidentally collided with the outcroppings in his haste. Once he reached the end, he sprinted up a staircase, taking the steps two-at-a-time. At the top, he was relieved to find a blinking panel with two dials on its face. He jogged to it, glancing to his right to discover that the entire wall was missing, and he could clearly see Joseph, Cassandra and Julie down below.

"I found it!" he hollered at them, drawing their immediate attention.

"Does it have the same kind of dials?" Joseph asked.

"Yeah—a top one and a bottom one."

"Set the upper dial to twenty-two, and the lower dial to five."

Sebastian obeyed; and in a great _clank_ and _splash_, the tank opened, releasing its filthy water and a spluttering Julie Kidman. Cassandra and Joseph were at the brunette detective's side in moments, the latter helping her to her feet. Sebastian breathed a sigh, relief finally washing over him—Julie was safe, the infected were slain, and the group was slowly pulling together, missing only Jimenez and Leslie. They had a chance.

Unfortunately, the victory was short-lived.

Sebastian's eyes widened in alarm when he saw a square symbol burn into the tile, glowing intensely and humming with untold power. Then, in a puff of dust and a rattling quake, the floor collapsed around the tank, sending Joseph, Cassandra and Julie into the earth with a symphony of protests.

"Joseph! Kidman! Manders!" The names tumbled past Sebastian's lips in quick succession.

His heart leapt when he heard a single, desperate reply rise from the newly formed pit: "Sebastian!"

Sebastian did not squander time; he did not even consider backtracking to reach the ground floor. He merely dropped from his perch, landing roughly on the shattered tiles and rushing to the edge of the pit. Staring into the inky darkness below, Sebastian caught sight of Cassandra dangling below him. She had managed to grasp a jutting pipe before she descended alongside Joseph and Julie; however, her grip was slipping and she struggled to pull herself to safety.

Sebastian knelt low to the ground and extended a hand toward the redheaded detective. "Come on—grab my hand!" he encouraged, stretching his arm farther—which, in all honesty, was a very small difference.

Cassandra's boots scraped the edge of the pit as she sought for purchase in the craggy rock to give her a boost upward. She must have found some assistance, for she suddenly surged upward, one hand reaching for his proffered palm.

But the pipe came loose under the strain and weight, jarring Cassandra's momentum. Her fingertips brushed his for a brief moment; then gravity seized her and sent her plummeting. Gone, swallowed by the shadows.

Sebastian smashed his fist against the ground and cursed ferociously. He listened for the longest time, waiting for something to happen—waiting for a sign. Nothing occurred. The room became eerily silent. Finally, he sucked in a deep breath and reexamined the pit, attempting to peer into the darkness. He had no luck. If he wanted to discover what happened to the others, he would have to follow them.

Could he be jumping to his death? Possibly. Was he willing to abandon the others? No, never. He had come this far; he was not willing to accept defeat now. He had to take a risk if he did not want to lose his team.

Shotgun strapped to his back, Sebastian swung his legs over the edge. He hesitated for three seconds, breathing in and out. Then he leapt into oblivion.

* * *

**To the Reviewers:**

_**Leyshla Gisel: **_Definitely! I cannot imagine stopping this story, especially considering how far it has come! It's always a joy to pull up this story and continue wherever I left off. And yes, Kidman is certainly a mysterious character; but for good reasons, as we shall see later on ;)

Well, Sebastian almost succeeded in bringing them together; then this happened. Their roads will undoubtedly cross again, though perhaps not under the most ideal circumstances...I seriously need to stop hinting. Thank you for your review, and I hope you enjoyed the new update! (Because I really need some oxygen...*flails*)

_**fairydaisy777: **_I'm glad! Hope you liked Chapter 7 as well!

_**Nirvana14: **_Good! Ruvik's personality is tricky to capture, and I debated over that section for the longest time. Seems it went over well, thankfully ^^ Thank you for the review, as always!

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yes, it is a miracle that you are seeing this new update! After playing _The Assignment_, I hit an inspiration bug; and, as a result, Chapter 6 and 7 were created in quick succession. I have never loved DLC so much until now.

On that note, I do have two **important **topics I wish to discuss. (1) I want to warn anyone who has _not _played _The Assignment _DLC that, after Chapter 8, there could be potential spoilers. I am afraid I cannot avoid that situation any longer after that point; therefore, I'm alerting you now. Read with caution! (2) I am halfway through the next Chapter [8], and you should expect to see it next week either on Wednesday or Thursday. However, future Chapters may be delayed for two reasons: First, the DLC has thickened the plot, and I would like to play through the second part before I delve further. I would hate to make a mistake that is contrary to the plot of the game and mislead any readers. Second, I will be starting college soon [God help me...], and I do not know how much free time I will have. It's a new frontier, and I will have to see how it plays out.

I'm sorry for the inconvenience, and I owe you all for your patience! I will keep toying with the future of this story and work on any segments of the Chapters that I can. You all are amazing for the love that you show this story, and I promise I will not abandon it whatsoever. Updates may be scattered, but they certainly won't stop. Thank you, and I hope you all enjoyed Chapter 7 :) Until next time...


	8. Chapter 8: Verisimilitude

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the game are my sole creations.**_

* * *

**Chapter VIII:**

**Verisimilitude**

"_The Devil can cite Scripture for his purpose." –William Shakespeare_

* * *

When Cassandra hit the ground—water, actually, since there was a wet _splash_ upon impact—she felt a sharp stab in her right side, and she cried out in response, writhing with anguish. Seconds passed; the world throbbed in unison with her steadily pulsing pain. She inhaled, wincing as a pinching sensation ignited from her side and wrapped her entire torso in dull, aching agony. A slower, more cautious exhale left her lips, and she kept utterly still as her hand felt along her enervated side. Her fingers touched a warm liquid, then came into contact with a cylindrical projection embedded in her skin.

Her heart dropped. She had struck _something_, and now it was buried in her side.

She gasped as she accidentally prodded the tender flesh with her fingernails, and she bit her bottom lip harshly to fight back the tears. Grueling minutes transpired as Cassandra focused on her breathing, keeping her intakes shallow and measured despite her rising panic. In the back of her mind, she knew she needed to remove the foreign object buried in her side; however, she also knew how much the pain that would undoubtedly accompany the action and the blood that would spill from the wound.

The blood! She had nothing to halt its flow; therefore, would she merely bleed to death? Would she kill herself rather than help herself? But what good would lying prone in a pool of water do? She saw no one, and she heard nothing besides a faint, echoing _drip_. She would not be receiving outside assistance soon, if ever. She had to solve this problem alone.

_Wait—what about that syringe I found?_ Her eyes went wide, and she carefully reached for the steel case crammed in her pocket. She fished it out, and she smiled to herself when she noticed its undamaged state. Granted, she had no idea what the green liquid would do to her body if she introduced it into her bloodstream. As Sebastian had said, it could be lethal, hence why it had been left behind among the scraps; but she had confidently told him that, if the situation was grim, she would take her chances. If the solution saved her life, it would be worth whatever risks she took.

Besides, if she waited for the slight chance that someone would arrive, she would asking for a punitive death. She was losing blood—slowly, but steadily—and unknown creatures were undoubtedly lurking in the dark. Why pointlessly delay when she could give one final effort to survive?

"All right, let's do this," she muttered to herself, resolved. She placed the steel case in her lap, then firmly grasped the projection planted in her side. She began to count to _three_.

_One._

_ Two—_

She ripped the object out, the third number mingling into her strangled cry. Black spots littered her vision as the world warped. Searing pain flared from her injury, and she rolled onto her side in an attempt to alleviate the agony. The effort helped little, merely agitating the inflamed flesh further.

A string of curses tumbled sloppily past her lips as she fumbled for the steel case. She located it, pried the lid off and pulled out the syringe, her trembling, blood-slick fingers making her hold feeble. She sent a quick prayer heavenward before inserting the needle into her arm and injecting the solution.

A blazing sensation traveled up her arm—like liquid fire coursing through her veins. The syringe fell from her shaking hand, and the glass needle plopped into the water. Her side blossomed into a new, stronger wave of anguish, as if someone had kicked her injury repeatedly and relentlessly.

Cassandra gritted her teeth, tears slipping down her cheeks as she waited for the process to end. Long, torturous seconds dragged by as the solution spread throughout her body like a wildfire. The skin around her wound stretched and pulled; the blood that had steadily dripped onto her arm was interrupted; her aches became numb; her muscles lost their tension—everything simply ceased.

Several silent minutes passed before Cassandra finally regained control of her limbs and reached a hand toward her wounded side. Warm, sticky blood clung to her fingertips as she brushed along the fabric of her shirt until she found the tear. Gingerly, she applied pressure to the exposed area, finding contorted skin where her injury had previously been.

Stunned, Cassandra forced herself upright, grimacing as her torso became rigid from the movement. Her right arm instinctively curled around her stomach while her opposite appendage pushed her body away from the ground. Once properly sitting, she lifted the hem of her shirt and gently swiped away the smears of dark crimson, discovering the faint, agitated line of a fresh scar where her wound had formerly marred her torso.

She was healed.

But how? All she had done was inject the syringe's questionable contents into her bloodstream. Had the solution been that powerful? Cassandra had received her fair share of cuts, bruises, scrapes and, once, a broken arm; but no medical treatment had ever restored her health so swiftly and seamlessly. Now, she had received a sizable hole in her side, and the skin had been melded together within a couple of minutes—by a single dose of green fluid, no less. Granted, the process had been excruciating, and the scar itself was irritated and sore—the slightest shift sent sharp stabs up her spine, as if a dozen needles were being inserted between each vertebra—but she was alive. That assurance belittled all discomforts.

Cassandra's next priority was to regain her footing and observe her surroundings. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she may be able to find a hint to her fellow detectives' whereabouts; or, if not, a straightforward path that would help her progress forward. She may not be familiar with this world, but the shifting scenery told her she was delving further and not merely walking in circles—a fate that would be worse than an encounter with any infected being. Cassandra did not need that—not now, not ever.

She rose unsteadily, legs weak and scar sensitive. She extended a hand and found an adjacent wall to help her keep her balance; and, once she unfurled to her full height, she pressed her shoulder against the solid surface, breathing in and out slowly as her body adjusted. A careful scan of her surroundings revealed that she was standing in a tunnel, the curved structure composed of compact weathered bricks covered in creeping moss. Ankle-high, muddy water flooded the floors with broken, metal bed frames and unmoving, decomposing bodies jutting out of its shallow depths. An unpleasant scent wafted through the air, and Cassandra cupped a hand over her nose—only to discover that her palm carried the same horrid stench.

Why, though? Why was she here, severed from Sebastian, Joseph and Julie once more? They had all reconnected easily, Julie's rescue the greatest challenge they had faced. Then, within the blink of an eye—before Sebastian could even come down from his perch and enjoy the reunion!—the floor had crumbled and the earth had swallowed them. Was it mockery, allowing them to find each other before mercilessly ripping them apart? Was Ruvik doing this to them? Was he purposely kindling their hopes then smothering the flames before their inner fires could grow too wild? Or did he have a purpose—a plan belying the madness?

_'You are going to help _me_ escape.'_

Cassandra's free hand pressed against her forehead as a dull headache arose. She closed her eyes, cycled through two, deep breaths and let her lashes flutter open. Immediately, she caught a flash of movement further down the tunnel, and she lifted her gaze in search of the source. There, wading gracefully through the water, a mere outline set against a wall of shadow, was a figure—a figure that had not been present seconds earlier.

Curses rang in her mind. When had the figure appeared? Had she missed its vague form during her initial search? Had it emerged from an unseen corridor? Was her brain playing tricks on her? Was _Ruvik_ prodding at her sanity? The explanations were numerous—though, with experience, Cassandra supposed the latter—but none of the options would mend the situation. The figure may be walking away from her, but it was also taking the only route Cassandra could take.

'_Straightforward_' suddenly became a very grim path.

Summoning her courage, Cassandra glided forward, the water stirring subtly beneath her feet. She was tempted to call out to the figure, but a nagging suspicion warned her against the idea. The figure's identity was unknown to her; and, even more deliberating, she did not know whether it held good or ill intentions toward her. Therefore, until she could find an exit from the tunnels—or, at the very least, an alternative avenue—she should remain inconspicuous.

Staying near the concave wall—mostly for support, if her gait ever faltered—Cassandra cautiously followed the figure. The trip consumed a handful of minutes, but not without change. The lighting improved, a distant glow originating from some point ahead, silver and cool. The pale rays danced off the figure's frame and revealed a heavy, black shawl, a slender frame and a hood draping the figure's skull. Its right hand was unseen, perhaps keeping the shawl drawn tightly over the figure's bony shoulders; its left hand, however, was visible and constantly in motion, clicking long fingernails together and crafting imaginary whirls in the air—and, strangely, Cassandra could have sworn she saw a golden glimmer leave the figure's fingertips, bright and flickering, like miniature flames. Cassandra was intrigued, almost entranced by the lilting gleam. Was it a trick? Were her eyes betraying her? Surely that was the case, but Cassandra's piqued curiosity refused to be swept aside with a baseless guess. She wanted proof—evidence. Her dangerous interest urged her to lengthen her stride to acquire a closer inspection.

She gained a few feet, her tread noticeably more gentle as she waded through the murky water, attempting to keep her presence unknown—that is, _if_ her presence was unknown to the figure. The being never paused and listened, or glanced over its shoulder. It continued, steady and undeterred, never acknowledging Cassandra. Still, a small part of Cassandra expected the figure to spin around and pinpoint her in a heartbeat, as if it had been waiting for her to venture after it. Considering her past experiences, Cassandra would hardly be surprised; however, the thought was enough to add another layer of wariness to Cassandra's actions as she pursued her mysterious company.

Once acquiring a good space behind the figure, Cassandra reinitiated her inspection of the figure's twitching hand. She saw the golden gleams more pronouncedly, their source somewhere beyond the pulses of luminesce that coiled around the knuckles, fattened the spindly veins and wound up the figure's arm, disappearing into the sleeve. They were abnormal, and the sight made Cassandra's own skin prickle with disgust. What could possibly be crawling underneath the figure's flesh? Was it a disease? Unforetold power? An illusion? Cassandra could not even begin to guess; and, quite honestly, she wondered if she _wanted_ to know.

Cassandra eventually entered the silver light at the end of the tunnel, the generous illumination giving her the opportunity to observe the layout before her. The roughened brick of the tunnel came to an abrupt cessation, the exit a crumbling mess of formerly stunning red brick and fine craftsmanship. Clear moonlight casted its soft rays on the gloomy area ahead—a graveyard with a decent number of engraved stone slabs and unearthed tombs. A flock of ravens pecked at a patch of loose soil, unperturbed by the pair that freed themselves from the tunnel's passages. On the horizon, a church was nestled within a niche in the stone outcroppings, spotlighted by the moon's sparkling shafts.

"Church, church, church, church," a voice chanted. Cassandra craned her neck forward and gazed down the subtle slope leading away from the tunnel. Down below, Leslie stood a few feet away from the base of the aforementioned slope, next to a narrow trench that collected the muddy water that drained from the tunnel.

He mumbled to himself as he shuffled back and forth, twisting his hands in nervous anticipation. "Find the church, get to the church. Floors, floors—something's hiding. Can't find us there."

_Help him._

Cassandra cringed, swayed and stumbled, her shoulder ramming into the wall and her feet splashing the water. The air throbbed and pulsated, like a strong, beating heart.

Leslie cried out, "He's coming! Near, near, near!" He bolted, dashing into the maze of graves.

"Leslie!" Cassandra croaked, pushing herself forward to chase after the frightened boy. Then, suddenly, she remembered the forlorn figure she had been following, and she snapped her head in the being's direction, eyes wide as she met the pale blue gaze of the figure. Cassandra glanced over the figure's features in one quick sweep, noting the gaunt cheeks, protruding bones, wrinkled brow, oily white hair, thin lips curled into a sly smile and a hooked nose resembling the beak of a bird. Cassandra held her breath as the figure lifted its left hand, the skin glowing with utmost radiance as the golden light filled the being's veins.

"Find the church, find the boy, find the detective," the being said, its voice feminine—a woman, then. She made wide gestures, the air tingling, as if lightening was about to strike them both. "Hurry, before it's too late."

The tunnel erupted into golden light, outshining the moon's pale radiance. Cassandra lifted an arm to lessen the intensity of the illumination, squinting in an attempt to see where the source was located—or, rather, sources. Painted on the weathered bricks and shining through the murky water from the sloshy earth, was the symbol Cassandra had seen on so many occasions, both within and outside this maddening world. They pulsed and shifted, shining brightly or dimming lowly whenever they pleased. It was as if they were alive, breathing and pumping blood of their own birthright. It was amazing and terrifying all at once.

Then, a thunderous roar echoed along the tunnel's length, the symbols blinking away one after another, starting from the back and progressing forward. Cassandra realized too late that the symbols' vanishing was due to a great wave of water funneling down the tunnel.

Reacting solely on instinct, Cassandra fled to the mouth of the tunnel and began slipping down the slick slope. She was too slow, though, and the wave of water broke free of its confines before Cassandra could escape its radius.

Droplets sprayed into the air, catching the moonlight and creating a stunning, silvery display, as if mercury was raining down rather than water. A rapid stream crashed down the slope soon afterwards, snatching Cassandra's balance and sending her tumbling down the incline. She finally came to a stop when her body sank into the teeming ditch, the frigid water soaking through her clothes and washing over her skin.

A moment of panic shot down Cassandra spine as she struggled to resurface, legs kicking and arms thrashing. Several petrifying seconds passed before Cassandra's head appeared above the sloshing surface, coughing and drawing ragged breaths as she cleared the water from her lungs. She blinked droplets from her eyes and searched for the shore. Once locating the edge of the ditch, Cassandra waded clumsily through the water, entangled her fingers in the tall grass growing on the bank and hauled herself onto land.

Her chest moved up and down, rhythmic and constant as she regained her composure. Her tongue seemed to be lathered with mud, and she spat in an effort to remove the awful taste—an effort that was futile, merely worsening the effect. She sat on her knees and lifted her head, combing her fingers through her drenched hair to push the clumped strands away from her face.

She was on the other side of the trench, facing the ominous graveyard and the dominating church bathed in the moon's pure light. She was being shoved in this direction—no, she had been specifically _told_ that she must go this way. She had to reach the church; she had to find the boy, Leslie; and she had to find the detective. No plural on the latter objective—just one detective that would meet her at the church, Leslie hopefully in tow.

Cassandra glanced over her shoulder in urgent search of the figure who had dispelled; however, she was gone, as well as the symbols that had once plagued the tunnel's walls and floor. Only a steady flow of water and a few discarded pieces of bedframes and bodies populated the slope now.

Cassandra hurriedly turned away, feeling her stomach clench at the latter detail. She stood, wincing as her side strained against the action, taut and aching. Cassandra lowered her gaze, pried open the hole in her shirt and examined her wound. The scar was still present, but the skin around the area was a mottled dark grey, as if bruised. Perhaps it had been struck during her descent; or, worse, her miracle cure was beginning to show its side effects. Cassandra exhaled exasperatedly and detached her attention away from her injury, knowing she could do nothing more for the ugly blemish. Truly, her only option was to reach the church, gain some ground on Leslie and meet the detective who would be waiting for her arrival.

The graveyard was hardly a jolly destination, and the moonlight only added to the grief that veiled the plot of land. Cassandra swerved around a multitude of tombstones, peering at the names and dates engraved on the grey slabs of stone, recognizing none of them. Absently, Cassandra wondered whether the people buried here had died in this twisted world, similar to the hanging man she, Sebastian and Joseph had stumbled upon.

She shook her head. She did not want to dwell upon such dark thoughts—especially here.

A rustle and a low growl emitted from behind a half-wall, and Cassandra came to a halt, refusing to even breathe as she listened. Someone hacked; then a head and a pair of shoulders appeared over the half-wall as a woman with unkempt hair and barbed wire wrapped unforgivingly around her torso rose to her feet. Cassandra dove forward and pressed her back against the half-wall, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip as she listened to the woman's inhuman noises and slow, shuffling gait. Carefully, Cassandra poked her head up and watched the woman proceed forward, twitching and swiveling her head left and right sporadically. A reflective glint from her hand alerted Cassandra to the wicked knife that the infected woman carried—a grand reason not to be spotted.

Cassandra lowered back down, slipping her handgun out of its holster—amazing how she had been able to retain it—and checked her stock of ammunition. She was empty. Grudgingly, she remembered her reckless shooting while attempting to save Julie. All of her bullets had been used to dwindle the oncoming hoard of infected men and women; and now, she was left defenseless once again. She would have to improvise.

Cassandra hugged the wall and followed its length until she reached a gap. The infected woman was still meandering forward, oblivious to Cassandra's presence behind her. Cassandra seized the opportunity to slip through the opening and dart quietly across a bare patch of land. Her eyes remained locked on the woman, leaving their target only to search for the next point of cover. Eventually, she did reach a particularly large monument—a dedication to a seemingly important person, judging by the elaborate design and impressive height and width—and she ducked behind it, releasing a sigh of relief. She was making progress, at the very least.

But her hope was shaken when she heard raspy breathing originating a few feet to her left. Slowly, she pivoted her head in the aforementioned direction, swallowing thickly when she saw another demented person slinking around a cluster of gravestones, a torch held aloft in his right hand. Cassandra edged away from the infected man and his ring of light; however, the sharp _clank_ of metal against stone halted her movements. Flanking her right was a gangly young man missing a quarter of his skull and wielding a dangerously sharp scythe, the blade having connected with the corner of the monument Cassandra hid behind.

A string of curses silently left Cassandra's lips as she drew away from the third enemy. Her heart skipped a beat when the man plodded forward while dragging the blade of his scythe along the roughhewn stone of the monument. If he turned at the corner of the monument, he would catch sight of Cassandra kneeling in the grass; however, if Cassandra attempted to circle around the monument, she may draw the torch-wielding man's attention. She was caught between two difficult choices that left her little chance at discretion: She could wait and pray that the infected group would not find her, or she could made a bold move now she lost her advantage.

Cassandra had garnered the courage to shift to the opposite end of the monument, prepared to slip past the torch-wielding man, when the distant echo of a booming bell rang in the distance. Every head—including Cassandra's—whipped in the direction of the clamor; and, without much hesitation, the infected journeyed toward the great tolling, growling and snarling as they left.

Cassandra dared not waste the opportunity, leaving her cover and scampering through the graveyard, dodging behind tombstones as she ventured further.

Who had rung the bells? The question, in truth, was rather ridiculous, for a decent number of answers could have efficiently solved the inquiry. However, Cassandra kept returning to the figure's words: _'Find the detective.'_ Could one of her companions be providing the distraction? Or was it another lost soul who had foolishly summoned his awaiting death? Was Leslie a possibility?

_Just get to the church, Cassandra. Whoever helped you can be debated later, when you're safe and have Leslie at your side._

The thought genuinely concerned Cassandra. Not necessarily her determination to reach the church or her dismissal of the person responsible for the bell incident. No, she was concerned about her sudden _need_ to protect Leslie. She had felt the same impulse in the cottage, after she had lost her senses and had involuntarily abandoned Sebastian in the shack. The persistent feeling had felt innate—natural. Leaving Leslie to fend for himself sent a pang to her heart and forced her brain to concentrate _only_ on the white-haired boy. She could not describe the sensation in great detail—only that she could not allow Leslie to wander unaccompanied in this insane world. She needed to _help him_.

Cassandra blinked rapidly, clearing her head of the troubling musings. If she wanted to reach the church, she needed to keep her mind focused.

Maneuvering through the graveyard was easier, her path crossing the routes of the infected only a few times. Once, she had nearly alerted a group of three disfigured men and a rotting woman. Her lantern had collided with the corner of a tombstone, and Cassandra had barely reached cover before the infected snapped their attention toward the noise. They had wandered around her location, growling like unruly animals. Their insistent search had fortunately led them to a wheel-less wagon, giving Cassandra the opportunity to scurry away and along the dirt trail that wound through the stone slabs.

Her trek eventually ended at an iron gate with a metallic bar inserted into the handles to keep the gate closed. Someone had obviously been here and had wanted to keep the infected from chasing after them. Had Leslie managed to accomplish the feat? Despite his unstable state, Leslie had survived through this ordeal thus far, and he had proven that he had some common sense left, dodging obstacles and keeping safe without a companion constantly at his side.

_Or is Ruvik the one who keeps him safe? He needs Leslie, so does he protect the boy? _The theory was plausible and would explain Leslie's abundant good fortune; however, when tested against her assignment to protect the Beacon patient, the theory seemed baseless. If Ruvik could adequately defend and guide Leslie to whatever destination he had planned, then why did he need her to watch over the boy, too? Ruvik claimed to own this world and everything within its boundaries; he claimed that she and the others were trespassers and did not belong here. If these statements were true, then where did she factor into the equation? How had _Leslie_ captured his implicit interest? None of it made any sense.

Frustrated, Cassandra fought with the wedged bar, the iron gates groaning under the stress. She threw quick glances over her shoulder often, ensuring that the infected were not near. The graveyard was silent, though, without a single disturbance to interrupt the perpetual peace.

Eventually, the bar came loose and Cassandra jerked it free, creating a resonating _clank _that echoed much too loudly. She hurriedly slipped through the gates and shut them behind her, sliding the bar back into place. Whoever reinforced the gates was smart, and Cassandra was wise enough to follow the demonstration her predecessor had left behind. She only hoped that she was not restricting access to any of her comrades by replacing the bar.

Sighing softly, Cassandra turned her back to the gate and trudged up the ascending path, her eyes glued to the church's steeple rising above the surrounding rocky outcroppings. The structure was ghostly in the moonlight, its stained-glass windows pitch-black and its cross glinting eerily.

Why Leslie wished to reach the building was beyond Cassandra. The Beacon patient had mentioned 'floors' and 'something hiding' and 'can't find us.' Those phrases were bewildering and lacked connections. What could be beneath the church's floors? Was there a formidable creature lurking underground? If so, why would Leslie wish to provoke a monster tucked under the church? Was the reason linked to the latter phrase? Did Leslie believe he could not be found if he slipped into the church—_underneath_ the church—and risked exposure to this hidden creature?

Guesses. Cassandra was guessing; and, unfortunately, that was the best effort she could put forth until she found some solid answers.

Her stride widened and her steps harshened. Perhaps she should dwell less upon the subject and reach the church, instead. Obviously, she had no solution while roaming along the beaten, upward path, surrounded by an array of craggy formations; therefore, she should place her hope in the church and the closure it may bring to her. Leslie was fleeing to that destination despite the contradictions, and she planned to be there with him.

Soon, the bordering rocks parted and became more refined, creating an aged courtyard with low, mossy walls and half-decimated benches. The dirt and pebbles morphed into square slabs of stone pressed close together and forming stable ground.

Cassandra gratefully transferred herself onto the smoother surface, the heels of her boots striking the stone audibly. She tramped past two crumbling benches and into an exscinded area in the center of the courtyard, a buckling half-wall forming a circular threshold. Broken shards of pottery littered the stone slabs, wilted roses swirled into the mixture. Cassandra plucked one of the dead flora from the ground, pinching the stem with one hand and cradling the withered blossom with the other.

"Roses?" she muttered aloud, twirling the flower. A petal detached and floated airily to the ground. Cassandra watched the descending petal—a momentary distraction that allowed a thorn to puncture the pad of her thumb. She jerked, dropping the rose and curling her fingers around her stinging thumb, grimacing at the minor discomfort.

Recovering, she glared mildly at the fallen flora—only to find the blossom in a healthy, carmine state. Cassandra's eyebrows rose high upon her brow, surprise etched into every inch of her features. What sort of irony was this? A flower colored by her blood—was she imagining the spectacle?

Cassandra knelt on one knee, carefully avoiding the shattered pottery. She brushed her fingertips across the soft petals of the rose before pinching a single piece and plucking it free of the bunch. Cassandra was further shocked to discover that the pigmentation was like chalk, smudging onto her skin and ruining the petal's vibrant color. A ploy, a mockery, a _fake_. Someone was finding the setup to be amusing; Cassandra was not that someone.

Cassandra's lips curled into a disgruntled frown as she released the petal and stood. She stepped over the lively rose and strode across the courtyard, boots recklessly crunching the shards of pottery. She stepped over the half-wall and aimed for the pathway leading out of the courtyard. At the mouth of the exit, she paused, turned and stared at the crimson rose once more to ensure she had not been hallucinating the rose's rejuvenation. Instead, she discovered that it was no longer the only living vegetation. Every scattered rose was alive, their blossoms' full and bright, their petals facing her retreating form.

Cassandra released a shaky breath, edging away from the scene, utterly disturbed and perplexed. She had barely taken three steps along her new path before her shoulder touched a solid object. Gasping, she whirled around, hands raised defensively and eyes wide with disbelief and fright. There, enwrapped by contrasting shadows and meeting her gaze through a pair of lenses, was Joseph. Cassandra refrained from lashing out once she identified the person behind her; however, her unease did not settle, roiling like a storm-tossed sea.

"Joseph?" she asked, testing the name. She took a step backwards, feeling trapped between the unusual flora and Joseph. "You…ended up here, too?"

Silence weighed heavily on the air, and Cassandra found herself coming closer to the roses, increasing the space between her and Joseph. Warnings flashed in her mind, heightened her senses. She could feel the adrenaline pumping into her veins, prepared to fight or to take flight. Of course, she did not want to accept either option; but considering the strange aura that surrounded Joseph, she did not want openly welcome her fellow detective.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Cass," Joseph said at last. He sidled forward, and Cassandra promptly shifted backward, maintaining the safe distance she had created.

"I've seen a lot of things," she retorted lowly, defensively.

She expected to reach the half-wall soon with her hasty withdrawal; however, instead of her calves touching stone, her back came into contact with a much taller obstruction. Cassandra sucked in a breath and cautiously glanced over her shoulder, gazing upwards and finding a set of hard, hazel eyes—Sebastian.

The veteran detective did not appear to be the same man she stood with when battling the infected, trying to save Julie from a watery death; neither was he the same man that came to her aid when she was dangling above the pit. He may not have able save her from her dark descent, but he had done his best—she saw that in his determined gaze, knew it in her heart. Fortune simply would not lean in their favor.

None of those qualities were present at that moment. Neither of those men were her partners. They were artificial, like the roses strewn on the ground.

"None of this is real," she murmured, the words accidentally tumbling past her lips. She pivoted, swiftly dancing away from Sebastian. Her eyes darted between the two detectives, hands clenched into loose fists. "_You're_ not real."

"Are you sure about that?" Sebastian pressed. Cassandra could not deny the veteran detective's authentic tone, but her instincts screamed distrust. Her skin crawled as Sebastian joined Joseph and took a deliberate step forward. Measured, menacing—why did Sebastian's gait mirror Ruvik's own signature stride? Were her fears blending together? Or was the distinction purposeful?

Cassandra shook her head. Her skull felt as though it were about to shatter, a faint throb emanating from its base. She pressed her palm to the aching area. "You can't fool me. I'm not—I'm not falling for it," she gritted out. Where was that forsaken ringing _coming from_?

"Fool you? Cass, you're insane."

"Not once have we lied to you—unlike you, Manders."

Cassandra's jaw clenched, and she stared at both men pointedly despite her pounding cranium. "I haven't lied to you two, either," she said, sharp and curt, despising the spotlight that had been directed to her.

Sebastian suddenly surged forward, throwing Cassandra off kilter as she placed her worries upon the brooding veteran detective. "Then you're not telling us the whole truth," he bit back. "What happened after we were separated? What are you hiding?"

"Nothing!" she protested. Her shoulder blades brushed against a solid surface, alerting her that she had reached the boundaries of the courtyard. She had nowhere else to go. Her heart raced, thundering against her sternum, threatening to leap out of her chest. She forced a few deep breaths, hoping to calm her daunted state. The effort helped little, merely encouraging the rush of adrenaline through her bloodstream. Every limb was prepared to react at the slightest disturbance, like a ball balancing on the edge of a precipice—she could either roll backwards to safety, or take the daring plunge.

In sickening irony, however, she knew her predicament was her own creation. Whether the Sebastian before her was a false replica or not, he spoke the truth: She had misled him and Joseph. She had not explained her experience in the strange office or her encounter with Ruvik in full; rather, she had skirted the details and preserved the most disturbing revelations. How could she tell them that their entire _lives_ had been stored in the bottom drawer of a random desk in a nightmarish world? How could she recount her conversation with Ruvik? How could she share the vision she saw and the instructions she was given to help Leslie?

Sebastian—the _genuine_ Sebastian—had assured her that, considering the horrors he had witnessed thus far in this strange world, he was willing to listen to any tale she had to tell. He would, to some extent, believe her. But she ignored that promise; in the end, she deceived him, deceived Joseph. How could she knowingly commit that act?

"You're hiding the truth. That's more than _nothing_."

Cassandra was brought back to the present, and she felt a prick of danger at the close proximity the Sebastian imposter had gained. Her fingernails dug into her palms as her fists tightened.

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" she asked, voice strained.

"Tell me what happened. Tell me what you were so _desperate_ to keep from us."

"Why? You're not really Sebastian. You're a figment—a fake! I don't have to explain myself to you."

Rage boiled behind hazel eyes and curses slipped past curled lips. The imposter took a bold step forward; and, without a second thought, Cassandra freed her handgun and held it level with the imposter's chest. The action was enough to make him pause.

He snorted. "You wouldn't shoot me."

Cassandra adjusted her grip. Inwardly, she knew she had no ammunition; but the imposter did not have to be informed. "Actually, I wouldn't shoot Sebastian. You're a completely different story." She seized her own daring, confident step, advancing toward her adversary with a swell of a courage. The barrel of the gun touched the imposter's sternum. "So whatever you are, you better scurry back to whatever dark corner you came from before I riddle you with bullets."

The imposter pursed his lips, canted his head. The glimmer in his hazel eyes was foreign and chilling. He had not moved, and the smile he gave told Cassandra he was not going to comply with her order.

"That would be an impressive threat if the gun wasn't empty."

A beat of painful silence passed. Then, in a flurry of motion, the imposter clamped a hand around the gun and attempted to pry it from Cassandra's fingers; but Cassandra remained defiant, keeping her grip firm as she grappled with the imposter. They spun and twisted, wresting for control of the gun. The imposter held considerable strength; and, despite Cassandra's perseverance, she was beginning to lose the battle, her hands loosening under the imposter's crushing hold. Her panic soared, and she desperately searched for an alternate advantage. Her instincts responded with a simple, automatic response to the situation: pull the trigger.

A fruitless solution, she knew. The gun was empty, useless. Truly, she should not be fighting this imposter for the weapon, for neither of them would gain any benefit possessing it. As soon as the imposter had grabbed the gun, Cassandra should have let go and run. But she had not let go. She had stayed and defied the imposter any victory, even over an empty gun.

Now, she was pressing her forefinger down on the trigger, expecting a hollow click to remind her of her lack of ammunition. Instead, the gun jerked, and a reverberating _bang_ struck her ears. All movement ceased, time slowed to a crawl, and suddenly, nothing existed but Cassandra, the gun and the imposter.

Cassandra's gaze dropped to the weapon in her hands, watching the imposter's own palms become lax, slip away and retreat to his abdomen. Dark crimson blood oozed through the cracks between his fingers, absorbing into his attire and dripping wetly onto the stone slabs. Cassandra's mouth moved, forming silent words as she slowly lifted her head, eyes wide as she stared disbelievingly at the imposter. He met her gaze, the rage that had sparked in his hazel eyes gone—snuffed and replaced by a softer astonishment.

In that helpless moment, as reality came crashing down on Cassandra, the imposter did not seem as artificial as before. Cassandra saw _Sebastian_, and she had _shot _him. She had buried a bullet into a partner, a friend. She had made a terrible mistake.

But the gun should have been empty! She spent her ammunition while fighting the infected! She should have nothing! She had pulled the trigger in blind panic, believing that she would do no harm with no bullets to unleash. Yet the imposter—_Sebastian_—stood there with a hole in his abdomen and blood gushing. He was dying.

By God, what had she _done_?

Suddenly, she was running. She grappled with Joseph's clone briefly, listening to his accusations as he shouted them in her ear—_believing_ those blames placed on her shoulders.

She managed to free herself and dash through the exit, rocks and dirt and grass blurring into one as she escaped her evil deed. Her legs burned after a few minutes of unrelenting sprinting, as well as her scar; but Cassandra refused to slow her pace or slacken her stride. She needed distance from the courtyard; she needed to convince herself that what she witnessed was merely a visage—a figment of her imagination that Ruvik created to torment her. Her gun had held no bullets since Julie's rescue; she had not killed anyone, especially not Sebastian.

_It's just a stupid game._

Cassandra came to staggering stop, cupping her hands over her face and breathing heavily. Her heart was hammering, and her adrenaline was coursing throughout her body, worsening her frayed state. She parted her hands and lowered them to her sides. Her eyes drifted upwards, the church she had been seeking directly before her, guarded by only a tall, wrought-iron fence bordering the perimeter of the land. The church's steeple cast a long shadow that swept over Cassandra, partially obscuring the full moon overhead.

_But you have stay calm. You can't let Ruvik fool you so easily._

Numbly, Cassandra strode forward, opened the broken gate, trod up the staircase and paused in front of the entrance into the church. Tedious seconds passed, the air still and Cassandra's brain drawing a blank. She flattened a palm against the door that led into the building she had been sent to find; however, a lingering hesitance halted her movements. She scanned the door she was prepared to open, noting—with a sense of alarm that refused to be fully unearthed—the familiar symbol engraved into the metal.

The symbol was always present, always sardonic. Ruvik claimed the marking belonged to a separate group, but Cassandra was beginning to doubt the proclamation. Why should she believe that madman? He never gave her a reason to have faith in him; therefore, why give him the pleasure of trust? He had done nothing to deserve it

"This all your doing," she hissed under her breath, venom ensnaring her words. "You planned this, set your deeds into motion. You're the one at fault. You can't blame anyone for what you've done here."

Cassandra smacked her hand against the door, her palm stinging from the sharp contact.

A whimper responded to her anger, originating from the beyond the metal door. Cassandra blinked, slightly taken aback. Then, gingerly, she opened the door and entered the church with soft footfalls.

The church was not vastly different from any other similar building, withholding a few differences that made it unique. A runner rug was unraveled down the center of the church's checkered floor, leading to an alleviated podium. Behind the podium was a white statue of a woman with her hands clasped in front of her. To Cassandra's left and right were strewn pews, Bibles resting on most of their wooden seats; however, as Cassandra strode forward, she found an abandoned box of ammunition. She huffed, bitter and ungrateful as she collected the bullets and reloaded her handgun. Who would be at the end of her barrel this time?

"You're fault, you're fault…"

Cassandra faced the podium. Brow furrowed, she approached the platform and mounted the steps, peering around the podium to find Leslie sitting at its base. He wrung his hair and rocked back and forth, eyes closed and lips moving, voice whispering.

Carefully, Cassandra came closer. "Hey, it's all right."

Leslie opened his eyes, looked at her. He did not seem too soothed by her soft words.

Cassandra sighed and tried again. "Leslie, right? Do you remember me? I met you in that cave and found you in the cottage."

"Find you, find you…"

"That's right. I'm here to help you." She smiled lightly. "Though it's pretty amazing how far you've come on your own."

Leslie shook his head. "Kid helped, Kid helped—Kid, Kid, Kid, Kid!"

Cassandra's eyes widened. Kid—he had to be talking about Julie. Was she the detective Cassandra was supposed to meet? "Kid? Do you mean Kidman? Do you know where she is, Leslie?"

"Gone…gone…"

Cassandra ducked her head, bit her lower lip. Gone—missing or dead?

She nodded. "Well, how about me and you get out of here? Find somewhere safe to go."  
She helped Leslie to his feet. The white-haired boy cowered, pointing toward the statue of the woman. "Safe…"

"Safe—underneath the floor?"

Leslie stiffened. Then, in a surge of fear, he cried, "Coming! Coming!"

The church door swung open, emitting the figure from the tunnel. She strode effortlessly down the runner rug, a thin smile revealing yellow teeth. Cassandra pointed her gun at the woman, steeling herself for whatever terrors the woman might inflict them with. Her free hand clasped Leslie's clammy palm, keeping him close to her side.

"What do you want?" she demanded, edging toward the statue, praying that Leslie was correct about the structure's safety.

The woman stopped at the base of platform, canting her head curiously. "Find the church, find the boy, find the detective," she repeated, her smile still present. Did she find this amusing?

"Yeah, I got that message. I'm here, and so is the boy. What else do you want?"

She tilted her chin upwards. "Where's the detective?"

_This is insane._ "Gone! I don't know!"

She shook her head, as if disappointed. "You better hurry, dear."

Cassandra opened her mouth, prepared to demand answers; however, when the church's chandelier came to life, casting a pattern of the symbol on the walls, her words were lost in a mumbled slur. She gawked, felt Leslie tightened his hold on her hand. The earth quaked. Leslie screamed. Everything shattered into a thousand tiny fragments, as if reality had been broken.

Then the checkered floor melted away, and Cassandra and Leslie fell. Below the church they went.

* * *

**To the Reviewers:**

_**Leyshla Gisel: **_I'm glad you enjoyed! And yes, they certainly are! Ruvik and his mysterious ways, I suppose ;) Thank you for your review, and also thank you for your patience :)

**_fairydaisy777: _**That's good! And I hope you enjoy _The Assignment_ (it is certainly a good DLC; more than I expected)! Thank you for the review ^^

* * *

**Author's Note: **I know, the Chapter is a few days late (sorry!) but editing this Chapter took longer than expected. A few factors were changed and some paragraphs revamped. But, its done and ready to be posted!

So, yes, I introduced a new character of sorts; and yes, she will be present throughout the story. How she is involved, however, is for you, dear readers, to discover ;) Don't worry - you'll see soon enough.

That being said, I hope you all enjoyed the latest update! I hope to see you soon (you know what I mean if you read the note from the previous Chapter) and thank you very much for your astounding patience! Until next time...


	9. Chapter 9: The Strength to Endure

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within whatsoever. I only claim ownership to any original characters or scenes not seen in the game.**_

_**Warning: Minor spoilers that hints to the DLC, but nothing major. **_

* * *

**Chapter IX:**

**The Strength to Endure**

"_A hero is no braver than an ordinary man but he is brave five minutes longer." –Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

Sebastian did not know what to expect when he followed the others into the pit; however, in the back of his mind, he figured he should prepare himself for the most insane outcome. Simplicity would be abandoned, replaced by a grueling scavenge to find Joseph, Julie and Cassandra amongst the inflicted souls that harbored the darkest shadows.

He was beginning to learn the outlandish systems of this nightmare, and surprises were becoming stale. Granted, he would not deny that the heart-pounding chases and relentless gunfights were far from easygoing experiences—every encounter would hang in the balance of life and death, depending upon the preciseness of each proceeding action. If he stumbled, his pursuers were upon him; if he missed a critical shot, his attacker would be provided a window of opportunity. Here, mistakes were forbidden, no matter how minor. The consequences could be disastrous, otherwise.

The depths of that pit, however, was a harrowing adventure that Sebastian hoped he would never have to repeat.

He had been deposited into a tunnel system, the floor unseen due to the blood and body count. The air had carried a wretched stench—the crisp, rotten reek of death and foul fluids. His lantern's light had barely been able to pierce the foreboding gloom of the rayless tunnels, creating a treacherous trek for Sebastian as he stumbled over buckled surfaces and bloated bodies. The walls had seemed to stretch forever onwards, never deviating or coming to an end—just damp stone glistening in the lantern's yellow glow.

Then, he had heard the gunshots, and his stride had become a loping gait interrupted only by the previously mentioned obstacles. He had found Joseph and Julie, fighting side-by-side against a cluster of the snarling infected. Sebastian had helped, exhausting the remainder of his shotgun's ammunition to defeat the horde. All had seemed well after the chaos had been quelled, Joseph and Julie baring only a few scrapes and bruises; the greatest concern had been the absence of Cassandra.

"She must have been sent somewhere else. Maybe she's close by?" Joseph had suggested.

"If we can get past this door, we might have better luck," Julie had added, rattling the locked iron door barring their path for emphasis.

A few ideas and attempts later, Sebastian and Joseph had managed to lift a nearby steel gate high enough for Julie to slip underneath and enter the adjoining tunnel. With unusual ease, Julie had been able to unlock the door and let Sebastian and Joseph come through.

Initially, their walk had been silent. Their current passage had kept extending beyond their visuals, making their pace seem slow and unprogressive. Sebastian—anxious to locate Cassandra and find a way to the surface—had been the one responsible to spark a conversation that had unknowingly led them into doubt and disaster.

"I'm glad you're both all right." Simple, genuine. Sebastian had never meant any harm when he had spoken those words, strolling behind Joseph and Julie, watching their backs. Joseph, however, had planted a seed of suspicious curiosity—a thought that had undoubtedly pestered him until he had the opportunity to express his concerns.

"It's odd, though," he had said—slow, cautious. He had been staring at the back of Julie's head, since the brunette had wordlessly taken the lead. "Why would they catch you instead of just killing you?"

It was as if Sebastian had taken a blow across the cheek. He had blinked slowly, mulling over the oddity with his own sliver of wariness. Joseph had made a good statement: Why would anyone go through the trouble of placing Julie in her previous predicament? Why create a delayed death when killing her in one, fatal swoop could have been accomplished much more easily? Then again, why had Joseph been left untouched, allowed to lie in a tub undisturbed? Why had Cassandra been tossed onto a cot and left for Sebastian and Joseph to stumble upon and awaken? The questions had all pointed back to Sebastian's original concern: Whoever had orchestrated this madness had wanted them all to come together, for whatever cruel reason the culprit had in mind.

Then why tear them apart as soon as they regrouped? Granted, Sebastian had found Joseph and Julie soon after the separation; but Cassandra had still been missing, and none of them had seen a single hint of her presence in the tunnels. Once again, they had to pick up the pieces—and for what? To be severed for another round in this twisted place? The facts had not been coming together as seamlessly as Sebastian had wanted.

All of those musings had been swept away, however, when Julie had responded nonchalantly, "Maybe he didn't see me as a threat?"

Sebastian had not missed a beat. "'He'?"

_Is she referring to Ruvik? _

The thought had barely crossed his mind—had nearly left his lips—when the air had begun to ripple. An invisible wave had enveloped him; then a second wave, stronger, throbbing like a steady heartbeat. He had stumbled and his legs had shook, threatening to buckle. Joseph had grunted his distress, palms pressed against his ears. Julie had spun around, baffled, but strangely unaffected.

That had all changed very quickly, though.

Suddenly, Julie had disappeared, engulfed by the blood at their feet. Joseph had been next, swallowed like Julie in a splash of crimson. Then Sebastian had felt a pair of hands clawing at his legs while a third appendage had latched onto his torso. Panic had settled rather quickly in Sebastian's mind as he had attempted to pry the offending palms off of his body, grimacing as long fingernails had punctured the fabric of his uniform and had prodded at the skin underneath. His efforts had been futile, for the hands had never receded, merely dragging him into the river of blood.

The chaos that had ensued after his submersion was a blur of terror, sprinting and fast thinking. Sebastian had fallen ungracefully onto a subfloor equally as grisly as the tunnel system. He had explored the area, thoroughly but swiftly, well aware that he needed to find Joseph and Julie before anything else did first. Initially, his undertaking had been relatively calm and rather productive. He had discovered a supply of ammunition—which he had readily used to reload his shotgun—and the greatest disturbance had been a couple of the infected wandering aimlessly through the halls (both dispatched with the clever triggering of an explosive and a well-placed shot from his shotgun). But the peace had not lasted. Sebastian had stumbled upon an old opposition—the six-limbed woman with the long, dark hair and blood-splattered skin.

Sebastian had been forced to run and dart around obstacles to avoid the arachnid-resembling threat. Bullets had been ineffective; however, when Sebastian had managed to spark a flame and lead the woman into the blazing fire, he had discovered a weakness—she was susceptible to open flame. The knowledge had been an amazing advantage, but his ultimate success did not come until he had tricked the woman into following him to a closed furnace and, once he had been safe, pulling a lever to send her into the hungry inferno. Her screams had been torturous, and the only joy Sebastian had derived from the woman's demise was his survival.

His only available path had led him through two sets of double doors, the second set revealing a circular room with humming equipment and a towering structure in the center surrounded by a murky pool of water and five tubs. Sebastian had gawked for a few moments, eyes flitting from one object to the next in his confusion and astonishment. He had been promptly interrupted, however, by the appearance of two wispy apparitions—apparitions he had recognized, but could not believe were present together. Leslie had been one of them, lying in a tub, seemingly dazed as he muttered 'go home' repeatedly. Ruvik had been the second person, unchanged, donning his same tattered garb and strolling languidly around the room, his gaze watching Leslie.

Sebastian had paced to Leslie's side, swapping his attention between the Beacon patient and the scarred man directly across from him. Ruvik had never acknowledged Sebastian's presence, confirming Sebastian's suspicions that the ghostly figures were not real; but, with that revelation had come two hypotheses: The scene had been a memory, or it had been an illusion molded for trickery.

"Subject's case history cites developmental delays and indicates issues with communication, social cognition, and repetitive behaviors. Signs of synesthesia reported," Ruvik had stated, his words snatching Sebastian's interest despite the scientific jargon. He had continued, saying, "Genealogy suggests increased susceptibility to external stimuli and pattern adaptiveness. Could you be what I have been searching for all these years? And under my own nose. Unbelievable…"

At that point, Ruvik had walked away from Leslie and toward a control panel. He had glanced over his shoulder, marred hand resting on a lever. "There can be no mistake. This one is…'_compatible_.'"

He had flipped the switch, and Leslie had arched upwards with a cry of torment. Sebastian had edged backwards, unable to interfere with the process—living with the fact that the apparitions were figments, either memory or illusion. Had that happened, and no one had ever known? Sebastian had recalled Marcelo Jimenez mentioning outside sources considering Leslie's treatment. Had the doctor known about such cruelty? Had he allowed Leslie to endure such pain?

Sebastian's boiling anger had been interrupted when the center structure had begun to hum and whir, like a machine powering on. The lights had flickered in tandem to Leslie's rising shrieks; and, for the briefest moment, the setting had blinked away, replaced by a giant brain probed by needles and wrapped in pulsing arteries and veins and twisted barbed wire. Sebastian had been beyond surprised; he had been completely and utterly dumbfounded by the sight. He had had little time to process the abnormal brain before everything reverted back to the original room—except, Leslie and Ruvik had left and the tubs had been occupied by seizing infected.

A brawl had followed, composed of stunning the infected then disconnecting the cord buried in the base of their skulls. The process had been tedious and gruesome, and Sebastian had grimaced when he had heard the crunching sound that accompanied each detachment. He had finally downed the last man, believing that the battle had been won, when the room had begun to shake violently, debris and sparks raining down from the ceiling. Sebastian had retreated from the overheating machine, attempting to find the double doors he had entered through; unfortunately, he had had no time to escape before a wave of energy had sent him flying backwards and had blinded his vision.

Gnarled men and women; falling down a pit; an illuminated, stained-glass window; a shattered mirror glowing intensely; mounds of skulls speckled by lit candles; a statue of an angel; a safe with barbed wire wound around the metal; a woman shooting at a lumbering creature with a large, hammer-like weapon; a desolate, crumbling hall; two figures dragging a man by his arms; deformed beings crawling toward him; too many doorways—all of those visions had flashed through his mind, becoming the last memory of the tunnels he had rampaged through.

Now, he was here, lying on a table, a lamp looming over his head and the world switching between grey and crimson. His head lolled to the side, his skull abnormally heavy and his eyes burning with the effort to keep them open. He saw a man standing beside him, wearing a doctor's garb and a pair of glasses. A nurse stood two feet behind him, unmoving, merely watching. The supposed doctor turned his back to him, his apparel flickering from a laboratory coat to a pristine white blouse—changing from man to woman and back again.

Was he imagining Julie Kidman?

The doctor turned back to him, nodding to the nurse then approaching Sebastian with purposeful steps. He raised a fisted hand, the glinting point of a needle staring down at Sebastian, hovering over his left eye. Sebastian tried to move out of the needle's path, but his limbs were either too heavy or they were restrained from use. He attempted to twist his head away, but his efforts provided only centimeters of movement—hardly enough to escape the doctor's intentions. The needle's point came within a fraction of his pupil before his vision was swamped with vivid carmine.

A grandfather clock served as his awakening. Sebastian jerked, craning his neck in every direction in confusion and alarm, the doctor and his needle still fresh in his mind. He was standing in office setup, filing cabinets surrounding him and a cluttered desk sitting amongst the metallic storage units. At the opposite end of the desk, the nurse from the estranged hospital stood staring at him with bland curiosity.

"Has something startled you?" she queried politely, but unconcerned.

Sebastian shook his head, still grasping for his senses. "Did they do something to my head?"

The nurse pursed her lips, tilted her head mildly and strolled out of the office, ponytail swaying and heels clicking on the tile. "You don't look well," she reasoned, obviously avoiding the question. "You should take better care of yourself."

Sebastian was tempted to snap a retort, but the harsh words faded when he noticed the open safe, the newspaper and the strewn photographs on the desk's surface. Intrigued, he circled around the desk to face the aforementioned objects. His first point of interest was the bloodied newspaper.

_CHURCH FLOOR COLLAPSES_

_No Injuries; "Witness Says Miracle"; Biggest Church Scandal to Date_

_Floor of Cedar Hill Church collapses during renovations. Parishioner says it was a miracle no one was injured._

An old article once again. Sebastian shook his head exasperatedly before pushing aside the newspaper in favor of studying the black-and-white photographs. A dilapidated town sitting on a cliff; a brick dwelling with an entire wall knocked down; another abode with half of the structure lying in ruin; a statue of a weeping angel; an aged, stone building with a wrought-iron fence marking its borders and a cross at its steeple—was that the church?

He lingered on the photograph for a few extra moments then switched his focus to the final image. Buckled tile floors fell away into a large hole, dark and foreboding. The lamp on the desk flickered. The image shifted. There was movement in the shadows. A disfigured hand rose from the hole—

Sebastian stumbled as the office rumbled and quaked, every light source going black. Sebastian held still, breathing in and out, surrounded completely by the darkness that now engulfed the room. His hand strayed toward his hip and clasped his lantern, flipping the switch and watching the lantern spark to life. Creaks and groans echoed around him, their sources unknown due to the lack of illumination.

Drawing his shotgun in preparation, Sebastian cautiously strode out of the office space and into a small area that, in faint resemblance, reminded Sebastian of the police department back in Krimson City. True, there were some out-of-place IV bags and gurneys and wheelchairs, along with a separate alcove containing numerous lockers; however, traces were present, giving Sebastian a sense of familiarity. Ignoring the lockers, he took a left down a wide corridor. A wheelchair rolled pitifully in front of him, unmanned and squealing from a broken wheel. Further beyond in the perpetual shadows, the shattering of glass startled Sebastian, and he raised his shotgun defensively.

"What was that sound?" he muttered to himself, his voice booming in the tantalizing silence.

Onwards he went, finding two doors: One metallic, the other an ornately decorated wood. He opted for the latter, revealing the area behind the reception desk. The nurse was vacant from her usual position and the papers she usually had him sign were missing, too. Wary, he exited to the lobby, meticulously scouring the place; however, the shadows contained no surprises and the setting remained unchanged. Lowering his shotgun minutely, he let his eyes sweep over the lobby in final observation; and, when his gaze landed upon the billboard, he saw the vague glimmer of the word 'missing' in bold print. He approached the billboard and tore off the poster, brow furrowing as he read the description.

_MISSING: Krimson City Police Detective Cassandra Manders_

_Neighbors saw her leave for work, but have not seen her return for the past three days. KCPD claims she has not present at the department._

Cassandra had went missing? When? How? She has always been present at the department; for God's sake, she had been in Connelly's cruiser when they had received the call about Beacon Mental Hospital! There had been no time in between for her to disappear. Did this mean, then, that they had all been in this nightmare for three days? Had they been here for that long? To Sebastian, only hours had passed since their arrival.

"_Leslie!_"

Sebastian whirled around. That was Cassandra.

"Manders?" he said, testing the name. No one responded, but Sebastian knew that the redheaded detective's voice had originated behind the door leading to the cells. Stashing the missing poster into a pocket for later analysis (he was also sure Cassandra would like to know about her supposed absence), he sidled toward the aforementioned door and swung it open. The hallway was as dark as the previous rooms, the walls covered with patches of scuttling roaches.

"_None of this is real. _You're _not real."_

The door slammed shut behind him. Sebastian's heart thundered within his chest. The rush of his blood filled his ears. He had no choice but to progress forward; he _needed_ to progress forward. If that was Cassandra he was hearing and she truly was present in the hospital, he had to reach her. The content of her words signified trouble, and he was not going to sit idly by and listen to the events unfold.

His shoes clacked against the tile and his lantern fought to keep the shadows at bay. The roaches scurried and clicked. A chill coated the air, icy with every inhale and seemingly lining his lungs with frost. _Haunted_ was an excellent description to give the corridor—a moment meant only for horror films. Sebastian never enjoyed the genre; he certainly never wanted to be a part of the action.

A light suddenly sparked at the opposite end of the hallway, illuminating the nurse from the lobby and the elegant mirror with a disturbing multitude of the strange symbol scribbled crudely above it. The nurse merely stood there for a handful of seconds; then, with an air of nonchalance, she turned right and disappeared from sight. Was there an alternate path now? Had the hospital expanded during his absence?

Sebastian tailed after the nurse, hesitating briefly when he heard children's laughter echo behind him. He twisted his torso to look behind him. Nothing emerged from the shadows; therefore, he continued, tightening his hold on his shotgun and straining his hearing.

He reached the end of the hallway. To his left was a set of double doors, and to the right was a descending staircase. Neither path had ever been there before.

"_You can't fool me. I'm not—I'm not falling for it." _ That came from the right.

"Manders?" Sebastian called again, a hint of urgency touching his tone. Still no acknowledgment.

Sebastian trotted down the staircase and through an iron door similar to the gate in the lobby. Another corridor led further into the gloom, cell doors lining the wall. The hum of a machine came from the darkness.

"_I haven't lied! You're a figment—a fake! I don't have to explain myself to you."_

"Cassandra!" He raised his voice and reverted to the redheaded detective's first name rather than last, hoping he could obtain a result. Cassandra either did not hear him or chose to ignore him, for she never replied. Sebastian lengthened his stride, peering into the barred windows of the cell doors, wondering if Cassandra had been placed into one of them. If she had been, he could not see her due to the poor lighting.

Suddenly, in a great clatter, a door slammed open and white light flooded the end of the corridor. A towering figure stood in the doorway, his brawny frame lumbering toward Sebastian, head oddly shaped and a large weapon clasped in his hand. Sebastian stumbled backwards and lifted his shotgun, undecided whether he should pull the trigger.

"_You're not real!_"

_Bang!_

The figure vanished. Sebastian's forefinger hovered over the trigger, but he certainly did not remember committing to the action—the shotgun did not even recoil, signifying it had not been fired. The gunshot had come from another.

_Cassandra._

The thought had barely crossed his mind before Sebastian began jogging down the hallway toward the shaft of light. Someone was whispering beyond the threshold. Sebastian peered around the corner to find Leslie crouched in the corner, clutching his head and trembling uncontrollably. The air rippled around him, toying with the environment and Sebastian's vision.

"Leslie?" Sebastian beckoned, edging toward the boy. A quick scan revealed that the aforementioned boy was the only one present. Cassandra was nowhere to be seen.

Leslie immediately stopped quivering, holding perfectly still for a second, then two. "Sebastian?" he said, free of his usual stutter and mumbling. "Sebastian? Sebastian?"

The Beacon patient spun around sharply, his features replaced by smooth glass that reflected Sebastian's stunned face. Then, in a flash of white light, the hospital melted before Sebastian's eyes, and he found himself leaning over a sink, glaring at a cracked mirror. Sebastian blinked, turning on his heel and observing his new surroundings. Four red-brick walls, a bedframe, a desk, crates and rubble—the hospital was gone and the setting told him he was far away from the tunnels.

Questions flooded Sebastian's brain. Who—or what—was the figure that had tramped down the corridor before disappearing in the blink of an eye? How had Leslie found his way into the hospital? Why had his features been sheared to glass? How had Sebastian heard Cassandra when she had not been in the hospital itself? Had he imagined her voice and her one-sided conversation? Or had the ordeal been an ongoing event, happening beyond the hospital's confines? If so, how could he overhear it? What trouble had Cassandra become involved with?

_Nothing you can solve._ Sebastian banished the bitter thought as soon as it crossed his mind. Whatever the issue may be, Cassandra could handle it. She had to.

He shook his head, then stared at the mirror a few moments longer. Finding nothing productive in his battered image, he stepped away from the shattered glass and searched for a route out of the unkempt room.

The crates were his best option, assisting him to a hole in the wall which led to an adjoining room with a larger pile of debris and a staircase leading upwards. He vaulted over the crumbling wall, loose bricks following his short descent to the ground. He grunted lightly when he landed, aches blossoming from a handful of sources, prominently from his right calf and the left side of his ribcage. Injuries formerly masked by adrenaline and grit. He did not want to know the extent—did not want to know the damage. Hence, he brushed aside his pains and focused on his current predicament and the task of finding his fellow detectives.

A silver glint buried in the fallen wooden beams drew Sebastian's attention, and he knelt beside the pile, shoving aside the pieces of wreckage until he uncovered a case. Cautiously, he flipped the latches to unlock the case and propped open the lid. Inside—to Sebastian's surprise—was a crossbow with two gleaming bolts resting beside it.

Sebastian huffed lightly, hefting the weapon testily. It was solidly built and surprisingly lightweight.

_Could be useful if I can learn the mechanics_, he inwardly approved. He claimed one of the bolts and placed it into the crossbow; the second bolt was hooked securely onto his belt. Armed and prepared, Sebastian trod up the staircase, the rotting wood groaning beneath his weight. Crisp sunlight was soon cast upon him, blinding compared to the shadows of the tunnel and the hospital. Sebastian squinted once he reached the top of the staircase, lifting a hand to shield his eyes as he gazed at the horizon. In the far distance, sitting directly below the rising sun, was the lighthouse nestled amongst craggy rocks. Its beacon of light did not shine—or, if it did, the sun muted its effects—but Sebastian still felt an undeniable tug toward the structure. That had not changed whatsoever.

His head swiveled to the right, and he saw a collection of stone buildings further along the dirt road, birds soaring high above the crumbling rooftops.

Sebastian frowned. "Same place as the photographs," he noted. He was being pointed in that direction, it would seem. Then that was where he was going.

He traversed along the trodden trail, passing two outlying buildings that had been left to wither away. He checked each aboding's interiors, fortunately discovering a package of matches and additional ammunition for his shotgun in the first one. The second building held nothing but a hanging body which Sebastian hurriedly left behind.

As he neared the town, he saw a decrepit brick wall with a huge wooden gate to blockade the entry. The setting was rather peaceful; that is, until gunshots originated beyond the border. Sebastian paused, listening for any more crossfire. Hearing nothing, he strode eagerly to the gate and pushed the double doors open with a great heave. The hinges protested, rusted from lack of use, but the doors parted nevertheless, granting Sebastian entrance.

Once through, Sebastian scanned the land, his gaze immediately falling on the figure lying in the grass—a familiar figure with neat black hair and a pair of glasses.

_Joseph._

Sebastian came to Joseph's side, helping his partner into a sitting position. "Are you all right?" he asked urgently.

Joseph blinked belatedly, a gloved hand cupping his forehead. He sighed. "My head wouldn't stop buzzing…it felt like it was about to crack open." His hand dropped back to his side. "But now it's like…I'm starting to get used to it."

The corners of Sebastian's lips dropped into a deep frown. Getting used to it—Sebastian hated the resignation that accompanied the phrase, as if Joseph was accepting some inevitable fate. Sebastian was not ready to hear about defeat, especially not from Joseph. "We'll get you out of here soon enough," he assured to the best of his ability, unspoken promise backing his words. Then, glancing at the tall structures behind Joseph, he asked, "Have you seen Kidman or Manders?"

Joseph shook his head. "No. Next thing I knew, I was here. I must've blacked out or…maybe I turned again—"

Shouts echoed behind Sebastian, and he twisted around to see a horde of the infected slipping through the gates. Their beady eyes were focused intently on him and Joseph.

"Inside—let's go!" Sebastian ordered.

Why did the towns always attract the worst?

* * *

After fleeing the massive horde of infected that invaded the town, surviving the onslaught of dangers that plagued the following facility, and felling the chainsaw-wielding maniac that seemed to shadow Sebastian wherever he went, Sebastian and Joseph entered the tower they had been desperately striving to reach. Sebastian was utterly relieved and understandably exhausted as he sauntered into the lofty structure. He reveled in the shade, mopping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and inhaling the balmy air that swept through the glassless windows high above his head.

"Let's be careful," Joseph said, glancing over his shoulder at Sebastian as he strode toward the centered elevator shaft. "It could be full of them."

Considering his scanty ammunition and weary state, Sebastian hoped Joseph was wrong.

He joined his partner at the elevator's entrance; however, the elevator itself was absent, a shrill squeak and grind emanating above them.

Joseph stepped back and frowned disapprovingly. "The elevator is stopped at the top," he noted dully—disappointed. "Let's look for another way up."

They trotted up the nearby staircase, Joseph claiming the lead as Sebastian adopted a slower pace, his calves and thighs burning with the effort. Their shoes clanked hollowly against the metal and created a reverberating echo that made him cringe internally. If there were any creatures awaiting them at the top, they were bound to hear him and Joseph long before they saw them.

Two flights up, they found the elevator, the doors jammed by a dead body. Sebastian grimaced when he laid eyes upon the sight. The man's torso was a bloody mess, the door having left a deep impression in his abdomen after its dozens of failed attempts to close.

"This is what the holdup was."

Sebastian did not openly acknowledge Joseph's somber observance, merely reaching into his pocket, fishing out the package of matches, selecting one and igniting it. He tossed the ablaze match onto the corpse, a disgruntled frown twisting his features as the body burned to ashes. It was strange how quickly the infected deteriorated when exposed to fire, or how susceptible some creatures were to the flame, like the six-limbed woman. The trait was a weakness that was shared amongst the monstrosities of this nightmare. Sebastian viewed it as both an advantage and a bitter irony.

Sebastian shook his head minutely, careful not to alert Joseph to his inward troubles. Now was not the time to be recounting the loss of his daughter; he would have plenty of time to mourn once he and the others escaped.

Suddenly—naturally—a drink sounded absolutely amazing.

They boarded the elevator, and Sebastian shut the door after them and pressed the top button on the control panel. The elevator whirred briefly before jolting upwards with a monotonous drone. Sebastian released a light sigh, rolled his shoulders, felt the shotgun and crossbow hanging across his back. He patted his pockets, checking his supplies. Bullets clinked together in one pouch; the box of matches were stored on the opposite side, some of the said product falling out of their confines. His lantern was still latched onto his hip, as well as his hunting knife, a revolver he had stolen from the corpse of an infected and his last bolt for his crossbow. The latter object gave him a sense of security, remembering how effective his latest weapon proved to be. The chainsaw-wielding brute's defeat served as an excellent testament, since Sebastian's final striving effort at survival had been a bolt to the maniac's heart.

He turned to Joseph and stared at the axe he held firmly in his hands. A dated sniper rifle was slung over his shoulder as a secondary defense. Sebastian had found the firearm stashed in the facility and had readily given it to Joseph, well aware that his partner needed another dependable source since he had lost his handgun. Besides, Sebastian had already claimed a shotgun, a revolver and a crossbow, and he had survived thus far with those weapons. He could withstand to lose the sniper.

Eventually, the elevator came to a stop and Sebastian slid the door open. He exited first, scanning the vicinity with utmost scrutiny. The peak of the tower was connected to a bridge leading to another archaic, stone structure. The bridge itself seemed relatively stable, the edges crumbling at certain intervals, the damage mostly cosmetic. Wooden beams and platforms sprouted along the bridge's length, rickety but still standing. Two of these beams drew Sebastian's attention: They stood on either end of the bridge, a worn rope suspended loosely between them and holding the weight of a bloody, bulky bag. Sebastian eyed the bag suspiciously, but decided not to investigate beyond observation. In this world, details were gruesome, gritty discoveries—most of them were meant to be ignored, despite the curiosity they sparked.

"Do you think Kidman and Cassandra are okay?" Joseph asked, yanking Sebastian out of his bleak musings.

Sebastian swiveled partially toward his partner, a scowl darkening his features—although, whether the automatic expression originated from contemplation or the realization that bodies were hanging like ornaments on the tower, was undetermined. "I don't like that they used Kidman as bait, or that Manders was left alone for us to find," Sebastian said at last. He glanced around the environment again, as if he expected to find an answer amongst the ruins. "It's almost like someone's toying with us."

Joseph nodded. Whether he wished to add to the statement was lost to Sebastian as his partner fell into a coughing fit. Sebastian's grimness multiplied, for he knew that Joseph's condition was worsening—slowly, but progressively. Sebastian did not want to see his partner turn again, to suffer the same fate as Connelly—that is, _if_ Sebastian could force himself to commit such an action against Joseph. He had been appalled at how easily he had put a bullet in Connelly's skull; therefore, he doubted he could even point the barrel in Joseph's direction. He never wanted to find out.

"Hang in there," he assured Joseph, providing a confident nod. "Just a little farther."

A little farther they went, strolling cautiously across the bridge, watching their footing and searching for any hidden enemies. They were roughly three-quarters across the bridge, passing under a chain-link awning, when a sharp scream tore through the air, silenced abruptly by a wet _thump_. Sebastian and Joseph exchanged a glance between them before edging forward, peering through the wooden obstructions to see two infected men utilizing a guillotine on their recent victim.

Joseph exchanged the axe for the sniper rifle. A look of determination crossed his features. "There are only two," he reasoned. "We can take them."

Sebastian, however, detested the plan. At the back of his mind, an innate sense of wrongness nipped at his judgment. Perhaps the scanty numbers of the infected seemed too easy; or perhaps the peace had been too generous for the distance they had crossed. Whatever the influence, barreling toward the enemy was not the solution to the issue.

Joseph was too far gone, though, and Sebastian's protests failed to slow his partner. Only when his foot landed on a tripwire did Joseph come to a halt, his eyes going wide behind the lenses of his glasses. An explosion erupted from beneath the bridge, sending stone and wood flying in every direction, like makeshift shrapnel. Sebastian was knocked off his feet, and he slid backwards, nearly tumbling off the edge of the bridge, his head and shoulders suspended over the valley and its rushing river.

Sebastian groaned, rolling away from the precarious drop. He studied the new gap in the bridge, then lifted his gaze higher to watch the infected men grip Joseph's arms and drag him up the slope, toward the awaiting guillotine.

_Two figures dragging a man by his arms._

Sebastian shook his head furiously, clearing his mind. He needed to stop the infected from putting Joseph in that guillotine. He had one bolt for the crossbow, but its range could not cover the great distance; his shotgun was as useless as the crossbow; and his revolver held slim chances of hitting its target. He needed another option.

A glint caught his eye, on the brink of the newly formed chasm. There, daring to plunge into the river below, was the sniper rifle Sebastian had given Joseph. The weapon must have slipped from Joseph's hands and landed on Sebastian's side of the bridge. Sebastian had never been so thankful for miraculous luck.

He snatched up the sniper and analyzed the position of the infected. They were halfway to their destination, and Joseph had still not woken. Sebastian sprinted along a wooden platform jutting from the side of the bridge, ignoring the rattle of the planks beneath his feet, threatening to collapse under the trampling gait. He hefted the sniper and stared through the scope, aligning one of the infected's heads in his crosshairs. A pull of the trigger sent a bullet ripping through the air; a second later, the infected toppled in a spray of blood. Sebastian adjusted, aimed and fired again. The second man's skull fractured, caving under the impact. He fell alongside his companion.

Sebastian lowered the sniper, releasing a long breath he had been holding. He shouted, voice echoing over the chasm, "You okay? Joseph?"

A few tense seconds passed, but Joseph eventually rose to his feet. His head swiveled, staring at the two bodies lying motionless beside him. He looked to Sebastian and nodded. "I'm fine. No need to worry," he reassured. He surveyed the area. "I think I can help you get across."

Joseph trotted toward a stack of lumber. He selected a specific plank, narrow but traversable if one was careful. He carried it toward the chasm and slowly lowered it to the ground, one end touching his side and the opposite side firmly planted on the wooden platform Sebastian stood on. Sebastian tasted the makeshift bridge with his right foot, then committedly followed through with his left. The plank bowed slightly in the center, but remained dutifully stable until Sebastian had crossed the gap.

Sebastian jerked a nod in thanks; however, Joseph's next words were not the response Sebastian had expected.

"You should have just let them."

Sebastian blinked, perplexed, concerned. "Huh?" he said, dumbstruck. Had he misheard Joseph, or—

Joseph surged forward and ripped the revolver out of Sebastian's holster. Sebastian attempted to snatch the weapon from his partner's hand, but his reaction was too slow. Joseph pressed the revolver's barrel firmly to his temple, lips forming a thin line and brow furrowing. His eyes were glazed over, dull and unseeing. He was mindless, and fully prepared to pull the trigger. The turn of events had Sebastian's heart thundering in his chest.

"It's just a matter of time," Joseph said, his tone unwavering despite the sliver of forlornness. He circled away from Sebastian, putting distance between them; but Sebastian mimicked his movements, muscles coiled tightly with tension, like a snake ready to strike. "It's better this—"

His gaze dropped to his feet—a mistake that created an opening for Sebastian. Sebastian lunged forward and drove his shoulder into his partner's chest, successfully knocking him off balance and, consequently, loosening his grip on the revolver enough to send it skittering across the dirt. Sebastian did not give Joseph a moment to recover, scrambling toward the discarded revolver and sweeping it off the ground. He spun on Joseph angrily, top lip curled in a snarl, expletives rolling off his tongue.

"What was that?" he growled, worried and affronted.

Joseph did not answer the question, merely sitting up and propping an elbow on his knee. He breathed in and out, never glancing in Sebastian's direction, staring blankly at the horizon. Sebastian could not discern what was going through his partner's mind—whether Joseph fully realized that he had nearly put a bullet in his brain—but he knew he would not receive any answers. Joseph had reverted to a state of shock; he needed an opportunity to regain his composure—his senses.

He had lost himself. Not quite turning, but something else entirely.

_'I would like to think we're strong enough, and that we keep each other anchored when events start to get out of hand.' _ Cassandra had told him that while Joseph had disabled the explosive wired to the door. Sebastian wanted to believe that notion, too; however, considering Joseph's waning condition, his hopes were beginning to become muddled. Escaping this nightmare was their best option—perhaps their only option. Every moment was precious time until they reached that goal.

The roar of a dozen infected across the chasm drew both Sebastian's and Joseph's attention. Twisted men and women loped toward them, hands glinting with unconcealed weapons and depthless eyes glowing intensely.

Sebastian spat a curse, rushed to the suspended plank and yanked it away from the wooden platform. Two gangly infected sprinted after the withdrawing plank, leaping foolishly into the air in an attempt to latch onto the plank before Sebastian could safely remove it. One missed and plummeted down the valley, landing with a grand splash into the coursing river. His companion, however, was more fortunate, fingers catching the very edge of the plank. His weight surprised Sebastian, and the plank slipped from his hands. Both the infected man and the plank were lost to Sebastian.

Somewhere behind him, Joseph hollered, "I'll get the gate open. Cover me!"

The latter exclamation urged Sebastian to rescan the crowd on the other side of the chasm, noting the presence of a firearm in one infected's hand while an additional two were each preparing a Molotov. Sebastian readied the sniper rifle as he scurried down the incline to obtain a better vantage point. Once the most lethal infected were in his sights, he opened fire. The gun-wielding individual was eliminated easily with a critical shot to the abdomen, beneficially flying backwards into one of his compatriots and sending them both flailing over the edge.

Sebastian felt a swell of success at the accomplishment; but the sudden burst of fire on his right smothered his triumph. He shifted away from the ravenous flames and glared through the scope of the sniper, the head of a mask-wearing infected coming into view. A gunshot rang in the air; a shower of blood and porcelain rained on the bridge's stone pavers. Sebastian swung the sniper around to point at the other infected—a woman with scraggly blonde hair and sporting a colorful mask with a devilish grin. The bullet zipped through the barrel of the sniper and struck the woman in the shoulder, missing its intended target by reckless inches. The shot was still effective, though, for the woman was forced to drop her ignited Molotov. Orange flames danced around her feet and snaked up her form, ending the threat for Sebastian.

The mob was becoming desperate. Without their ranged attackers, they had to improvise—by jumping across the chasm in blind hope of reaching the other side. Most missed, but a few actually found purchase, their gnarled fingers sinking into the earth as they hauled themselves up onto solid ground. Sebastian could have dealt with the stragglers, since he counted only four survivors; however, when he saw the reinforcements pouring out of the tower, he felt the panic began to kindle—only to be doused by Joseph.

"Sebastian!" he beckoned. "Hurry, this way!"

Sebastian spun on his heel and fled through the opened gate, tailing after Joseph. Once safely on the other side, he freed his revolver and fired at the mechanism keeping the gate lifted. The lever snapped, and the stampeding infected were blocked from view as the gate plummeted and buried its spikes into the soil.

Sebastian breathed a curse, mostly expressing utter relief than anger. He faced Joseph, watching him warily as he asked, "You all right?"

"I…I…yeah," he said at last. He never did meet Sebastian's gaze.

With a defeated huff, Sebastian shoved the sniper rifle into his partner's hands. Joseph finally spared him a glance, his reasons undoubtedly sparked from his bafflement. Sebastian was more than willing to provide an explanation—an explanation that would hopefully keep Joseph _anchored_.

"Look, what happened back there, can't happen again," he stated, his grip still tight on the sniper and his gaze unwavering. He drew a long breath. "Holding a gun to your head is not going to help anyone. Not Kidman, not Cassandra. Not _you_. Whatever's going on here—whatever's affecting us—we can fight it. More importantly, I know you can too, Joseph. You've resisted it before. Don't let it get the best of you now." He released the sniper, took a step back and relaxed his squared shoulders. "I need my partner."

Joseph stared long and hard at the sniper rifle in his hands, mulling over Sebastian's words. Finally, he nodded. His features were still grim, but determination shined in his eyes. He never did retreat from a challenge—he never did ignore a friend.

"You can—" He stopped. Hesitated. Then, with commitment, he said, "You can count me."

Sebastian shared his own nod, confident, trusting. He clapped Joseph on the shoulder. "Good. Now let's get moving."

They continued in relative silence, interrupted only by an occasional remark on their surroundings. Neither of them acknowledged what happened at the bridge; and, for Sebastian, he shoved the memory out of his mind—at least, to the best of his ability. A single thought still flitted through his head, though, telling him what he did not want to hear: Joseph was turning, and Sebastian was powerless to stop it.

* * *

**To the Reviewers:**

_**Leyshla Gisel: **_Oh, so I have caught you off-guard there, huh? ;) I suppose, in Ruvik's mind, it is always the question of whether each event is 'real' or not. The DLC has me reconsidering the situation everyone was placed in during their time in the STEM, since the differences between Julie's perspective and Sebastian's perspective can be quite drastic. Also, Haunted Joseph? Nope, I'm outa here. *walks away*

On that note (sorry for the minor ramble!), I am glad you enjoyed the recent update! And I do hope you get your hands on the game (or watch it); it is definitely an exciting experience (and terrifying - survival horror and whatnot). Thank you for your review! ^^

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, yes, I have gotten my hands on _The Consequence_ and I finished it rather quickly (both because I wanted answers to my pressing questions, and more info added to the plot so this story doesn't go haywire - although, considering this all takes place in the mind of a madman, that has probably already been achieved). Hence, new Chapter! Not too spoiler heavy since I wanted to switch over to Sebastian. Cassandra's already at the church; Sebastian has a long road to get there himself, and a part of me hated to jump so far with his perspective. So, yes, I did stick a bit more closely to the game, with some deviations here and there. Like, for example, why wouldn't Sebastian or Joseph remove the plank linking the bridge to the mainland? Right there, they are asking to be killed. _Begging_, practically. I will not stand for such illogical thinking. Plus, I can imagine Sebastian having his little "pep talks" every once in a while, especially for the people he cares about. He may not be eloquent, but he is straightforward and protective. That's why we love him.

All right, Author's Note is dragging out. Thank you to all the readers, followers, favorites and reviewers for the support you continue to give me! I couldn't write this story without all of you :)

Until next time...


End file.
